


bloom

by canarybird



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dermatophagia, Dysthymia, Explicit Sexual Content, Lack of Communication, M/M, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:21:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10041125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canarybird/pseuds/canarybird
Summary: Calum’s had his eyes on this boy since he got here. He’s conventionally pretty in a dirty sort of way; tall, blue-eyed and blond, but unshaven and unkempt, dressed in too-tight jeans and a too-big t-shirt. It’s not all that surprising that he’s got a mouth full of blood, too, Calum supposes, or scabby fingers that are oddly discoloured at the end.Or, Calum and Luke meet at a club, and everything goes spinning off-kilter from there.





	1. it's burning like an effigy in here

**Author's Note:**

> it's a love story, i think. (i know.)
> 
> inspiration: [rearrange by biffy clyro](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCeiLdfrXso)

His kisses taste like pennies.

It’s a weird, dirty, metallic taste, but Calum doesn’t pull away, just kisses deeper and deeper until his skin itches against the rough stubble that surrounds the other boy’s mouth. He jerks back, fingers still laced in limp, curly hair, and breathes heavy in the boy’s face. Inches from Calum’s own, his lips are slightly parted, dry and cracking from the downturn in the weather, but the taste of blood comes from somewhere deeper, somewhere hidden. He closes his mouth for a moment, swishes saliva around and swallows, audible and visible, before tugging Calum back again, hands fisted in his t-shirt.

Calum’s had his eyes on this boy since he got here. He’s conventionally pretty in a dirty sort of way; tall, blue-eyed and blond, but unshaven and unkempt, dressed in too-tight jeans and a too-big t-shirt. It’s not all that surprising that he’s got a mouth full of blood, too, Calum supposes, or scabby fingers that are oddly discoloured at the end.

Still, he’s the only remotely attractive person in the entire club, so Calum buys him a drink and tries not to stare at his fingers as they wrap around the beer bottle identical to his own. It’s about this time, broad shoulders hunched and knee pressed against Calum’s, that the boy says his name is Luke, like the saint—something Calum forgets between their first drink and first kiss, but remembers just in time before he’s stepping outside with Luke for a smoke.

Calum shivers beneath his thin jacket. It’s early-June, a little nippy in the air. Luke rubs his bare arms, not drunk enough to withstand the cold. “You sure you don’t want one?” Calum offers again, holding out his packet of cigarettes.

Luke wrinkles his nose. It’s kind of cute. “Nah,” he says, tucking his hands under his armpits. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself,” Calum mumbles, cigarette already balanced between his chapped lips. He fishes his lighter out of his back pocket, has to flick it a few times before a flame appears at the end. He lights up, nicotine flooding his senses. Bliss.

Luke watches the ash from Calum’s cigarette float to the ground between them. He moves awkwardly as he stands, rubbing his thighs together to generate some heat. He clears his throat and Calum waits expectantly, ignoring the movement of his thighs. “Do you want to—when your done—get another drink? Or do you want to…” Luke stops, chews on his cheeks. His voice is timid as he speaks, petrified of rejection. Calum will get used to this, eventually.

Calum takes a drag and exhales it skywards. “Mine or yours?” 

Luke’s lips crack with the force of the smile that breaks out onto his face. “Yours, if that’s okay. I still, erh, live with my parents.”

“That’s fine,” Calum says, smiling. It’s not as weird or embarrassing as Luke’s blush suggests. “Do they know that you’re, y’know, into blokes?” he asks out of curiosity, reaching behind Luke to stub out the shrinking butt on the cigarette bin.

Luke nods. “I just don’t want them to…hear that I’m into blokes,” he says, smiling again. Blood oozes from the cracks on his lips.

“You pretty loud, huh?” Calum teases, hands searching out the curve of Luke’s waist above his baggy t-shirt. He thumbs over the fabric, wonders if he’s as soft as he feels.

Luke rests his arms over Calum’s shoulders, ducks his head down. He licks the blood from his lips, stains his tongue red at the tip. “That depends on you,” he says, cheeky, before kissing Calum again, all alcohol and tobacco and pennies. 

They wait at the bus stop together. Calum sits, arse freezing against the cold bench, while Luke stands between his spread knees, absentmindedly staring at the timetable in his eyeline as Calum rests his head up against his stomach. His hands clasp tightly around the bend of Luke’s knees, fighting the urge to let them wander northwards, get a good feel of his thighs and arse.

They don’t have to wait too long for a bus to come, thankfully. Luke practically jumps on, the chill reaching his bones. When Calum asks him why he didn’t wear a jacket, he just shrugs and pulls one of Calum’s arms over his broad shoulders, huddling into him for warmth. Calum smiles, drops his other hand into Luke’s lap, thumbs the inner hem of his jeans.

“Do you live alone then?” Luke asks, resting his hand on Calum’s own.

Calum tries not to pay too much attention to the way the skin around Luke’s nails is peeling away. It doesn’t seem to bother Luke. “Yeah. I hate it, though. Feels like I’m going to go mad sometimes.”

Luke laughs low in his throat. His cheek rests against Calum’s shoulder. “That’s what it feels like at mine. Mum’s always in my business,” he mutters the last part, playing with Calum’s fingers. They’re much nicer than his own.

“My mum sends my sister to do that. They think I don’t know they’re in cahoots.”

Luke laughs again, higher this time.

“This is our stop,” Calum announces, retracting his arm from around Luke. “Still up for it?”

Oh, that’s right, they’re going to fuck. Luke blinks a few times before taking the hand Calum offers him. How could he forget?

Calum leads Luke the short distance back to his apartment, not once letting go of his hand. By the time they reach his front door, Luke’s palm is sweating, the only warm spot on his entire body. Calum curses when he finds he forgot to keep the heating on, runs to the boiler to switch it on.

Luke stands in Calum’s living room, the rush and rattle of the heating kicking into life all around him. He shivers at the change in temperature, but the nippy redness from the wind slowly fades from his skin. He declines a cup of tea when Calum returns.

“Do you want to, uh, go to my room?”

Luke follows Calum down the hall. Calum stills outside of his room, one hand on the handle. “Are _you_ still up for this?” Luke asks. His brows knit together. “I—I can go home, if you want. No hard feelings.”

Only there would be. Luke can’t hide the wobble in his voice to save himself.

“No, no, it’s just. I don’t do this a lot. It’s weird. I shared this place with—”

Luke doesn’t want to know. Luke never wants to know. He silences Calum with a kiss, reaches down and opens the door himself. This might be new to Calum, but it’s not new to him; he knows how this works. He knows exactly what he wants, walking Calum backwards into his own room, pushing his jacket off his shoulders.

They separate for a moment, allowing enough space and time for each of them strip down to their boxers. Luke keeps his eyes on the tattoos coming to life as Calum’s muscles flex; Calum keeps his eyes on the way Luke’s boxers stretch over his arse, cling to his soft thighs. With the press of their chests together, Calum feels his confidence return and all the blood rush to his crotch.

Luke shoves Calum back onto his bed, crawls after him. Smiling, he spits into his palm and reaches for Calum’s cock, fishing it out of his boxers and grabbing it like it belongs to him. Calum groans, bucks, whines about Luke using his cold hand on purpose.

Luke smiles devilishly. “Nice,” he says, impressed. He hovers over Calum, noses almost brushing, and twists his wrist. “I reckon you could make me make plenty of noise.”

For now, though, it’s Calum’s turn.

Luke lets go of him to pull his boxers all the way off, then his own, but takes a hold of him soon enough, shifting all the way back down to give Calum’s cock his full attention. He keeps a hand around the base as he licks the tip, intentionally or unintentionally making the obscenest noises possible. Calum fucking loves it.

“Suck my cock,” he breathes out airily at the ceiling, fingers scrambling for purchase in Luke’s curls, making sure to press his fingertips roughly against the other boy’s skull. “Oh, fuck, _please_.”

Ever eager to please, Luke does as he’s asked. He presses his lips to the head of Calum’s cock, still for a moment as he swishes the saliva around in his mouth before letting it seep out through his lips, wetting his cock up further. When he’s satisfied, he takes his cock into his mouth, as much as he can take without gagging, and works his damp fist around the rest.

Calum tightens his fists in Luke’s hair. “You’re going to have to stop soon,” he warns.

Luke hums and pulls away, a thin string of spit connecting his lips to Calum’s cock. “Want to fuck me?”

“Fuck _yes_.”

“Where’s your stuff?”

“Bathroom.”

“Convenient,” Luke grumps, flopping down onto his side.

“Wait here,” Calum says, rolling out of bed and padding out of his room, not that Luke has somewhere better to be.

“Most people keep their lube and condoms in the bedside table,” Luke says when Calum returns, sitting with his legs spread, a hand loose around his cock, teasing himself. “Y’know, for ease of access and all that.”

Calum shuffles up towards Luke on his knees, coaxing his legs further apart. He’s compliant, putty in Calum’s hands. “Then where would I keep all my knives?” Calum jokes, although he’s not entirely sure if joking about being a serial killer is against hook-up etiquette or not.  Right or wrong, Luke laughs.

When Calum leans down to kiss at Luke’s chest, the blond’s back arches, ankles crossing somewhere behind Calum. He moves lower, tonguing Luke's stomach, sucking on his baby fat, his hips. Luke whines. "Stop being a fucking tease,” he groans, and Calum laughs.

“I want to fuck you,” Calum says, but asks, “Do you want me to fuck you?” just to be sure.

“Yeah,” Luke says, but it comes out more of a shudder as his hips begin to move, fucking his own fist. “I want you to fuck me— _Christ_. Fuck me good.”

Calum moves forward, wraps his arms around Luke’s thighs and hauls him towards him, resting Luke’s thighs up on his knees. “Fuck you ‘til you’re moaning nice and loud?” Calum teases, picking up the lube and snapping it open.  He coats three of his fingers. “If you want me to stop, just, y’know, say the word and I’ll stop.”

“Got it,” Luke assures, letting his head fall back against the mattress. Almost subconsciously, eyes on the ceiling, Luke brings his free hand to his mouth, starts chewing on the second knuckle of his middle finger, muffling the groan that rumbles up his throat as Calum works one, two, three fingers inside of him. He can feel himself begin to blush with the need for it, an itchy dampness starting at his neck and working its way down his chest. He stops thrusting into his hand, moving down to his balls instead, accidentally brushing Calum’s sticky fingers as he does.

“Don’t come yet,” Calum warns him, reaching for a condom. “You’ll ruin the fun.”

“No’ gonna,” Luke slurs petulantly. 

Calum is gentle as he enters Luke. Luke is whining around his fingers, three now shoved into his mouth. Calum watches him do this, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t coax the fingers out of his mouth to hear exactly how Calum is making him feel. He just watches him curiously, thumbs pressing into Luke’s hips, his thrusts slow and calculated for now. “Yeah, that’s it," he praises under his breath, acutely aware of how perfectly the curve of Luke’s arse fits against his groin. “That’s it. Good boy.”

When Luke takes his fingers out of his mouth, there’s drool on his lips, his chin. “Harder,” he demands.

Calum shifts. Luke moans. “Say it again.”

“Harder. Fuck me harder.”

Calum does.

Mouth free of fingers, Calum soon discovers that Luke is indeed very loud. He doesn’t say much; it’s more just noises, nonsensical blabbering and something that resembles Calum’s name. "Calum," Luke says, and Calum fucks him. "Calum," Luke says, and Calum fucks him even harder. He keeps his hand tight around his cock, and the other, still damp with his saliva, hooked into the meat of Calum’s thigh, the catches on his nails leaving thin, nasty red lines on his dark skin.

Calum grabs Luke’s thighs again, pushes them apart a little more, leans down. He gets a mouthful of pennies for his trouble. Luke encases him in his long limbs before he can sit up again, keeps him as close as humanly possible. Calum feels a hand in his hair, right on the base of his skull. He’s not going anywhere.

Calum comes first, despite his best efforts. He pulls out of Luke slowly beforehand, rolls off the condom and asks if it’s okay to come on Luke’s chest. Of course it is. In fact, it’s encouraged.

“My tummy, too,” Luke whines loud, jerking himself off. His face is all scrunched up again.

He’s cute, Calum thinks and comes over Luke’s soft abdomen.

Calum’s coming down from his lofty high when Luke quakes with the force of his own orgasm, toes curled in the air. He keeps saying Calum’s name—over and over and over again, even when he’s done, legs limp against mattress. “Calum,” he whines when he disappears to discard of the used condom and fetch a damp rag.

“Hey, you alright, mate?” Calum asks, running the rag over Luke’s chest, stomach and then, even gentler, his sensitive softening cock. He chucks the rag on the floor with his dirty clothes, lies beside Luke, tucks his sweat-damp curls behind his ears.

Luke goes to chew on his knuckle again, but stops when he catches Calum’s eye. He tightens his hand into a fist on his chest. “All good. Great, actually. That was fun.”

“Fucked you into a right state,” Calum says, catching his tongue between his teeth.

Luke shoves him playfully with as much strength as he can muster. “Fuck off, man.”

Calum leans in, kisses Luke again. It’s a soft, closed-mouth kiss. No pennies. Luke sits up, letting Calum seal the space between their mouths once again. If Luke’s kisses are like a mouthful of pennies, then Calum’s are a gentle press of clouds, soft with the muted promise of a storm. Luke could kiss Calum forever.

“You can stay, if you want,” Calum says in case it isn’t clear.

“Yeah?” Luke smiles, dopey.

“Yeah,” Calum reaffirms. “Can’t have your parents asking you where you’ve been,” he says, settling down properly next to Luke, tugging at his unmade sheets. Truth is, Calum doesn’t think he’d have the balls to kick anyone out of bed, never mind Luke.

They don’t cuddle. They’re still strangers, technically, so Luke shifts away from Calum, takes up camp on the cold side of the bed. Calum looks over, blinking to make sure it’s all real and settles down to sleep.

*

It’s three o’clock in the morning when Calum hears screaming.

He can’t sleep—he can never fucking sleep—so he slips out of bed, leaving Luke behind, and heads to the kitchen. He’s not hungry, so he makes himself a cup of tea, cringing at the clink of the teaspoon against the side of his cup and praying the thunderous boil of the kettle doesn’t wake Luke up. He looks so peaceful when he leaves him, breathing calm and easy through his nose, not quite snoring, and chewing absentmindedly on his fingers. He’s even prettier when he sleeps, Calum thinks. Miraculous.

He's adding milk to his tea when he hears the scream pierce through the silence.

It startles him, obviously, and the carton of milk goes crashing into his cup, smashing it, sending hot tea and cold milk cascading down the counter. He doesn’t pause to notice. He’s flying out of the kitchen in a heartbeat, straight down the hall and into his bedroom. He switches on the light.

Blinking in the sudden light, Luke is sat up in bed, white as a sheet, breathing heavy. The only colour on his skin is a smear of red by the corner of his mouth, and more on his hand, cradled in the other. “I-I—”

“Shit, dude, your hand.”

Luke’s eyes drop down to his hand, lifts it to his face. He’s bleeding at the second knuckle. “Shit,” he mutters and sucks on the cut.

Calum stands motionless, confused. What does he do? What do you do when your one night stand wakes up screaming with bloody fingers? What do you do when that happens to _anyone_? “Are you alright?” he settles on asking.

Luke rakes his fingers through his hair, takes his other hand away from his mouth. He examines the small cut, decides it’s really nothing. “Bad dream.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry for scaring you.”

Calum shrugs his shoulders. It’s fine, really. He’s just out of milk, and his favourite cup down. He walks the short distance to his bed, sits down, places a hand over the lump of sheets where Luke’s knee protrudes. He’s still not entirely sure what he’s supposed to do, so he waits, lets both their heartrates drop down a level. He hadn’t even realised his heart was going like a kettledrum.

“Can I—Can I have that smoke now?”  

Calum certainly doesn’t have any better ideas. He gives Luke’s knee a quick squeeze before getting his cigarettes and lighter from his discarded jacket, an ashtray off the nightstand and sitting it between them both when he re-joins Luke in bed. They sit facing each other, legs in a basket. Luke’s still naked, so he stays beneath the sheets, suddenly shy.

“So you _do_ smoke,” Calum says, plucking out a cigarette from the packet and handing it over to Luke. He takes one for himself, sets the others aside.

“Sometimes. A little.” Luke runs his thumb over the edge of the cigarette. He lets Calum light it for him. “I don’t like the taste.”

“Nobody does,” Calum replies, poisoning his lungs some more.

They smoke in silence for a while, not speaking, not touching. As much as it’s slightly awkward, it’s nice, Calum thinks, like meeting an old friend after years apart. He wordlessly offers Luke another after he stubs his first one out in the ashtray, smiling gratefully in return.

Luke licks his bottom lip, taps the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray; the blood on the corner of his mouth is gone. “So,” he begins, then stops. He scratches a nasty red patch into the dip of his collarbone.

“So.”

Luke laughs, embarrassed. A stray curl falls into his face as he ducks his head down to hide. Calum smiles.

“This isn’t usually how it goes,” Luke tells him.

“I guessed that.” Calum stubs out his cigarette, begins to shift backwards. Luke’s eyes widen. “I need to—in the kitchen, I spilt some milk.” He motions behind himself with his thumb. “Won’t be five minutes. I’ll be back.”

*

He doesn’t come back.

He doesn’t realise until he wakes to a firm hand on his shoulder, hunching over the kitchen table, head in his arms. He jumps, forgetting that he’s not alone.

“Sorry,” Luke says, standing in nothing but his boxers from the day before, the creases of Calum’s bedsheets melded into his chest, his cheeks.

Calum squints in the light of a new morning. “’S fine,” he mutters, sitting up. The click of his stiff bones echo around the kitchen. “Do you want something to eat?” he asks, not wanting to be rude. “I could make something.” He frowns. “I’ve not got any milk, though.” 

Luke scratches the skin beneath the waistband of his boxers. He shakes his head. “No, no, I’m good. I—I should be going.”

“You can use the shower,” Calum says. “Just watch, the water’s freezing for ages. Give it five minutes,” he tells him, pulling out a fresh towel from the cupboard and handing it to Luke.  

Calum smokes his last cigarette while Luke showers, tears up the packet afterwards out of boredom. Only when he hears the shower shut off does he move from where he’s been lying in bed, picks up Luke’s clothes from the floor and fold them in a pile at the end of his bed. Should he give him a pair of boxers? Socks? Is it a proper walk of shame if he does?

He’s still hovering in indecision when Luke pads back inside his bedroom, in his own boxers, towelling some of the water from his hair. Little droplets fall from the ends, cascade down his shoulders, chest, tummy. Calum can’t decide if he wants to catch them with his fingers or his tongue. Luke soon ruins his fun, wiping them away with the towel before Calum offers to take it from him.

It takes some effort for Luke to get his jeans back on. It’s funny. Calum laughs. Luke pouts, wiggling his hips and tugging them up. He’s lying flat against Calum’s bed in a bid to make it easier, dampening the sheets beneath him with his mess of wet hair, but Calum doesn’t mind, says, “I don’t remember it taking you so long to get them off.”

In the end, it’s Luke that asks for Calum’s number—but not without his cheeks burning like an effigy. “If you want to hook-up again,” he explains, fiddling with his phone. Calum takes it from him, adds his number. “I had fun.”

Apart from the screaming and the spilt milk, so did Calum. “Yeah, me too,” he says, smiling, and hands the phone back to Luke.

Just like they don’t cuddle, they don’t kiss when Luke leaves, repeating the number of bus that Calum tells him takes him back into town. Instead, Luke gives Calum an awkward little wave in the landing, waiting on the lift.

Calum, in a pair of sweats, waves back. He only shuts the door when Luke disappears out of view.

Later, Luke sends him a simple _it’s luke :)_  and he saves the number.

*

They meet up the following Friday, get a beer in town, go back to Calum’s apartment, fuck. Repeat.

One night Luke holds his knees to his chest as Calum leans over him, grabs the lube from the drawer of his nightstand. “See how convenient that is,” Luke bites, wiggling his toes in the air. He earns himself a sharp poke in the ribs, right where he’s most ticklish.

“You’re so full of shit,” Calum tuts, and _he is_. He’s full of shitty, lame jokes, too, as it turns out. Calum’s gotten one before work each morning this week.

Luke ends up on top of Calum, in his lap, knees either side of his thighs. Today his kisses taste like honey instead of pennies, his lips coated with a sticky balm over the cracks. He’s being noisy, talking more, asking for it. He knows what he likes—and what he likes is for everyone to hear exactly what he likes.

“I’m going to get noise complaints,” Calum warns him, slipping his hands around Luke’s back. He doesn’t tell him to quiet down, per se; he actually kind of likes it. “They’ll think someone’s getting murdered.”

“All those knives in the drawer are going to be really incriminating.” Luke doesn’t lift his head to speak, or even open his eyes, but he smiles, wide and wicked. He slows, though, sits right down on Calum’s cock, jerking a little from a jolt of discomfort, and starts circling his hips, smearing precome on Calum’s abdomen from his own cock. “Feels so good,” he moans, scabby hands tightening where they rest on Calum’s shoulders.

 It does feel good, especially when Luke clenches around him, goading him to come first again.

He doesn’t. It’s Luke, all over Calum’s stomach and hand.

“Cheater,” Luke mutters, pulling off Calum, too sensitive to continue. “Want me to suck you off?”

Calum’s not going to say no.

Luke gets between Calum’s legs, but not before licking Calum’s abdomen clean, getting his own come in his beard. It’s kind of gross, but kind of hot; Calum wipes some off of Luke’s chin with his thumb, brings it up to his own mouth and sucks it off. Luke doesn’t take his eyes off him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, rolling the condom off Calum’s cock and getting to work.

“Fuck,” Calum parrots.

Luke is enthusiastic, if not a little sloppy, when it comes to sucking cock. He drools around him, raising up to his hands and knees to take more of Calum into his mouth easier, and lets out a watery gargle when he brushes the back of his throat. He swallows, eyes clenching shut; Calum knows there’s nothing bad about the tears that slide down his cheeks.

Still, he pets Luke’s head, tells him how well he’s doing, how close he is. All because of him. Luke moans around him, embarrassingly turned on by the quiet praise.

It doesn’t take very long to come, too quick to warn Luke properly. He tries swallowing, but he gags, forcing himself to spit out the contents in his mouth over Calum’s crotch. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks up at Calum.

“If you say spitters are quitters, I’ll fucking punch you.”

Calum laughs, breathing heavy. “Wasn’t gonna,” he says, raising his palms. “Bit rude not to swallow, though, mate.”

Luke pinches the hair on Calum’s thigh. “Dick.”

*

“You look…” Mali cocks her head to the side.

Calum takes a drag of his cigarette. He’s been sent out to the back porch to smoke by his mother. Reasonable, he supposes, since she’s just fed him fit to burst and wrapped up a slab of caramel shortcake the size of Western Australia for him to take home later.

“What?” he asks, flicking away some ash.

She stares at him, inspecting. “I don’t know. Different. Happy.”

Calum shrugs.

*

_got the house to myself tomoz…_

_sounds good_

*

Luke’s wearing nothing but a pair of tight boxer briefs and ratty, oversized hoodie when he opens the door to Calum. There’s blood on the cuff of his hoodie, an ugly russet stained into the light grey, old and slightly washed out, but Calum’s gaze drops lower, to the ends of Luke’s fingers, where three of them sport a plaster, right over his nails. He smiles, pulling Calum out of the cold and into the warmth, chatting away about lunch as Calum follows him into the kitchen. His mum made broth, he tells Calum as he takes his jacket. They can have as much as they want because it’ll all go to waste if they don’t.

Calum’s never seen someone get so excited about soup before.

As Luke sits up on the counter after hanging up Calum’s jacket, one eye on the broth heating up over the stove, Calum stands awkwardly in no man’s land, hands in his pockets.

It’s his first time at Luke’s house, the first time they’ve met up not explicitly for sex. They might, and Calum hopes they do because he _likes it_ , but everything feels all a bit up in the air and Calum’s not sure he likes _that_. At twenty-four, he should probably suck it up and get over himself, but he can’t shake the feeling toying with his stomach, making his throat tighten.

On the counter, Luke swings his long legs, littered with a bruise or two. “What do you want to do after?” he asks, then adds, “I’ve got FIFA.”

“Cool.” Calum scratches the back of his neck. He feels like a teenager again.

“C’mere,” Luke ushers, stilling his legs, spreading them for Calum to stand between them. When he’s close enough, Luke plants a wet kiss on his cheek, runs his hands up and down his back. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“It’s been a week.” It’s always a week. When did weeks start getting so long? He moans as Luke’s teeth drag over his throat. “Not here.”

Luke pulls away, nodding. “Later.”

Calum smiles, brushing a hand through Luke’s hair. It looks nice, freshly washed. He looks like a prince. “You should probably be stirring the broth.”

“ _Shit_.”

*

For a brief, fleeting moment, Calum thinks he’s been fucking a teenager. Luke doesn’t look like a teenager, doesn’t act like one for the most part, but his bedroom is like some sort of shrine to his fifteen-year-old self. There’s South Park and band posters peeling from the walls, swimming accolades cluttering up the wall shelves, and a general chaos over every conceivable surface. It only occurs to Calum in that moment that he doesn’t actually know how old Luke is.

“Twenty-four,” Luke answers when Calum asks, down on his knees in search of a spare controller. He sits up a moment later, victorious, controller in hand. “It was my birthday on Thursday, actually. There’s still some cake left in the fridge if you want some.”

Calum runs his thumb over the analog stick, frowning down at the controller already in his hands. “You should’ve told me.”

“I would’ve appreciated birthday sex,” Luke laughs, flopping down beside Calum. He half sits, head propped up by the wall behind him, legs hanging over the edge of his bed. “I’d appreciate a few sympathy victories, just until I build up a bit of confidence, y’know?”

Luke’s given him controller one, so Calum starts up the game when Luke looks comfortable enough to begin. He scoffs. “It isn’t your birthday _anymore_.”

“I’m an invalid!” Luke tries, wiggling his bandaged fingers out in front of himself. “You have to go easy on me.”

Calum lightens up. He grins, wicked. “I thought you liked it rough.”

“Later,” Luke repeats. He lifts his hips a little, the outline of soft cock visible through sky blue underwear. Calum bites his lip, tries to focus on winning.

To their credit, they get through four matches before Luke ends up in Calum’s lap, making out and grinding like horny teenagers. At least the setting is appropriate, Calum thinks briefly in the back of his mind before shoving his hands up the back of Luke’s hoodie, palming at his sweaty skin.

From his elevated position and sheer size, Luke has to hang his head down to kiss Calum, open-mouthed and wet, the plasters on his fingers rubbing against Calum’s cheeks as he holds his head in place. He faintly tastes of pennies.

Luke’s bed is much narrower than Calum’s, barely fit for one man over six foot tall, never mind two, but they manage it. It’s precarious, and Calum’s pretty sure he’s got a nasty bump on the back of his head from Luke accidentally slamming him down against the headboard, but they manage it. You can do anything when you’re horny enough, Luke says afterwards, pulling his hideous hoodie on back over his head despite the distance Calum tried to launch it across the room, and Calum can’t disagree.

*

Calum doesn’t even realise he’s fallen asleep until he wakes to the noise of an unfamiliar voice. _Luke_ , it calls. _Luke, are you in?_ Calum tries to lift his head, but he can’t see much over Luke, who’s clinging to his chest, one leg bent over Calum’s. He should wake him, he knows he should, but he just doesn’t have the heart. Instead, Calum gently reaches down, eases Luke’s fingers out of his mouth and curls his own around them, resting them altogether on his chest.

“Luke, sweetheart, did you have dinner or—oh.”

Calum tries lifting his head again, higher this time, and catches sight of a short blond woman—Luke’s mum, he guesses—standing in the doorway.

Calum gives Luke a little shake, whispers his name in his ear. “Luke. Luke, your mum’s back.”

Luke isn’t for waking, mumbling some nonsense about living a life in c major before turning his face completely into Calum’s chest.

Calum flicks his eyes back up to Luke’s mum, who gives him a small, reassuring smile before closing the door to Luke's bedroom. He breathes out heavy.

On top of him, Luke turns his head, bearded cheek irritating the skin of Calum’s chest. “Your heart’s beating so fast,” he mutters sleepily. “Shh.”


	2. learning to fly takes time

It’s late September when the subject crops up for the first time.

When Luke asks Calum to hang out that Sunday morning, Calum jumps at the chance to go to Luke's place. Now they’re in Luke’s garden, lying on the grass, eyes shut against the harsh glare of the sun. Luke offers Calum a pair of sunglasses, but he refuses, content on blowing smoke skywards with his eyes squinting shut. They stay close but not quite touching; no doubt if Luke were to move, one of his long limbs would thump against Calum in a way he’s beginning to grow accustomed to.   

“Can I have a drag?”

Calum rolls onto his side, looks down at Luke, flat on his back. There’s grass in his golden curls. 

“What do you say?”

“ _Please_.”

Satisfied, Calum stretches out his hand and places the cigarette between Luke’s lips. He doesn’t let it go, and Luke’s hands, dry and nippy, stay folded over his stomach. He takes it away and Luke exhales. He does this twice more before rolling away, stubbing out the butt in the ashtray nestled in the grass. Luke used to keep it hidden from his parents, now it follows Calum around like a dog.

He returns to Luke, closer this time. Calum’s fingers skim over the freckles at the base of Luke’s neck, across the exposed skin of his chest. When he least expects it, Calum pinches some of Luke’s chest hair and pulls hard. Luke lets out a loud yelp, automatically gripping Calum’s forearm, wrenching his hand away.

“You dick,” Luke complains as he rubs his chest. “That hurt.”

“Poor Lucas,” he teases, and receives jab in the ribs for it.

They wrestle in the grass for a while, slamming each other into the dirt, staining up their clothes, eating grass. At one point Luke is on top of Calum, sitting on his chest, pinning his hands to the ground. His chest heaves, skin pink, something dark in his eyes. Calum wants to kiss the small indent on his nose where his sunglasses once sat.

“Are you letting me win?”

“Of course not,” Calum wheezes. Luke’s heavy. It’s not as pleasant as it usually is. Calum likes it when his thighs go numb from Luke sitting in his lap too long, when his lips go numb from Luke kissing him too long, but now he can’t breathe and his car and house keys are digging uncomfortably into his backside.

Luke gets off Calum, helps him to sit up. He apologises, but’s alright; Calum started it.

To make sure he knows all is forgiven, Calum slides a hand up Luke’s football shorts, squeezes roughly on his thigh. He keeps it there, kneading.

Luke leans over, kisses Calum with too much saliva and no self-control. He ends up underneath him, flat, like the way they do to fit on Calum’s shitty little couch to watch football matches at ridiculous hours. Calum sticks his fingers in Luke's mouth to keep him quiet. Luke arches off the grass, talking around Calum’s fingers as the older boy licks at the freckles he’d traced earlier.

“Luke!”

Luke startles. Calum startles. They separate.

Luke's stands on the porch, hands on hips and her eyebrows raised. “Enough of that out here,” is all she says, shaking her head and walking back inside. She’ll likely give Luke a sterner talking-to when Calum isn’t around, something about public indecency and neighbours and, god forbid, safe sex.

Calum can’t help but laugh at the embarrassment of being caught; Luke looks like he wants the ground to open and swallow him whole.

Luke shoves Calum half-heartedly. “Cut it out.”

“You cut it out,” Calum says, wiping his spit-slick fingers on the side of Luke’s face. “Probably shouldn’t be fucking in the middle of the garden, to be fair. Doubt your neighbours would want to hear or see that.”

Luke doesn’t perk up straight away. Instead, he stays quiet, thinking, his legs pulled up to his chest. Calum already knows it’s best not to push him to speak when he clearly doesn’t want to; Calum’s the exact same, albeit slightly less stubborn. In the meantime, Calum lights himself another cigarette, contents himself with his own stubborn habit instead.

“I want to move out,” Luke says eventually.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” Calum asks, eyes nipping against the smoke blown into his face by the breeze.

Luke chews on the insides of cheeks, filling his mouth with the taste of pennies. “We could move in together.”

Nothing changes in Calum’s posture, his expression. He takes one, two, three drags of his cigarette before flicking some ash into the grass. If he doesn’t do something soon, Luke’s going to chew holes in his face or eat his own hands.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

Calum chews on his own lip, scraping away the skin with his front teeth.

They’re not boyfriends, not officially. They’ve been caught in an awkward limbo between something and nothing for the last few months, neither one entirely sure what to do about it. Calum likes the idea—but whether he could go through with it is something else entirely different. Luke doesn’t even have a drawer full of his shit at Calum’s place yet.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” Luke says, pressing his blunt thumb nail into his kneecap. “I understand.”

“C’mere,” Calum says, shifting back down onto the grass. He beckons Luke with his fingers, his other arm cushioning his head against the ground.  

Luke crawls towards him on his knees, drops down, head on Calum’s chest.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to.” Calum lets his fingers slide through Luke’s hair, twirling a strand around his finger before letting it go. He picks out a blade of grass, watches it flutter away. “My lease is up around New Year. If you wanted, if we’re still…together, then maybe we could, y’know, look for something around then.”

“New Year,” Luke says, turning his head. His chin digs uncomfortably into Calum’s sternum as he speaks. “I can wait until then,” he tells Calum, smiling.

*

 Luke's mum isn’t thrilled about the idea.

“She’s just being protective,” Calum says when Luke tells him, taking out two plates from the cupboard as Luke tears open the plastic bag containing the Chinese food they’d ordered half an hour before.

“I know,” Luke says, opening up a container and wrinkling his nose. He passes it over to Calum. “But I’m _twenty-four_ —she wasn’t this bad with Ben and Jack!”

“You’re still her baby,” Calum says, emptying his chicken chow mein onto a plate. “My mum was the same.”

“You were much younger.”

“So?”

Luke pulls a face.

“I don’t know why you let it bother you. You’re an adult, you can do what you want.” Luke’s rummaging around for the beers in the fridge as Calum is speaking, his back to him. “She can’t stop you.”

Luke brings the beers down on the counter a little heavier than intended. “I don’t want to upset her,” he admits, turning to lean against the counter. He tucks his chin to his chest, picks at the skin around his nails.

“Hey,” Calum says, catching Luke around the wrists. Nobody’s bleeding tonight. “Give her time. There’s plenty of time.”

Luke nods and kisses Calum’s cheek.

*

Calum drums his fingers against his stomach, head tilted to the side as he waits for the second half of the football to start. He puffs out his cheeks, bored, and checks his phone again. Nothing. Sighing, he tosses his phone to the other side of the couch, watches it bounce to a precarious halt on the edge of the cushion.

In a moment of impulse, Calum jumps from the couch, grabbing his phone, and goes into his bedroom, heading straight for the chest of drawers in the corner of the room. He yanks open the one second from bottom and empties it over the floor. He takes a picture of the empty drawer, sends it to Luke with a caption of _this one can be yours :)._

Luke’s at work, so it takes a little while for him to get a reply. When it comes, it’s very simple.

_< 3 x _

*

They don’t see each other much, really. On the nights Calum is free, Luke’s at work, picking up shifts and working overtime. He’s saving, and Calum doesn’t need to ask what for. When Luke is free, Calum’s at work, playing fives with the boys from work or, like tonight, having dinner with his parents.

“So, when are you telling mum and dad about Luke?” Mali asks, joining Calum out on the back porch. She sits down beside him, stretches out her legs and crosses them at her ankles.

Calum, more hunched over, fiddling with his lighter, eyes her curiously. “Don’t even pretend you haven’t told mum _something_.”

Mali puts a hand over her chest, pretends to be affronted. “I would _never_ ,” she says, then adds, “but okay, I might have mentioned that you might be dating again.”

Calum physically cringes at the word _dating_ , still trying to light his cigarette. It doesn’t feel like he’s dating Luke; for one, they’ve never actually been out on a proper date. Is that weird? Calum thinks, choosing not to voice his question in fear of Mali whacking him over the head for going about this all wrong. In his defence, though, it’s not like Luke has ever offered to take _him_ anywhere either.

“How’d you reckon she’ll react?”

“Jump up and down, maybe cuddle you a bit.”

Calum finally gets a flame from his lighter and lights up. He laughs out a puff of smoke. “Probably.”

In reality she’s slightly less enthusiastic, but happy for him all the same. “That’s lovely, honey,” she says, shuffling around the kitchen, placing plates back into the cupboard as Calum dries the last of the cutlery. “You should invite him over for the long weekend.”

So, the following evening, Calum does.

It's not quite dark out, the sun stubbornly hanging over Sydney way into the evening, and they’re sitting across from each other in McDonald’s, kicking each other under the table as they eat. It’s not the most glamorous of dates, but Luke insists that it counts—but only on the condition that he gets a chocolate milkshake, which he’s currently slurping up happily. 

"You’re like a little kid sometimes, you know that," Calum says.

Luke crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue as he abandons his milkshake for the chips Calum didn’t finish. "Doing anything nice this weekend?" Luke asks, drowning his chips in the tub of red sauce.

Calum thinks for a moment, taking off the lid from his cup and tilting a few melting pieces of ice into his mouth. He crunches down. His teeth hurt. "Just the usual. My parents are having a barbeque—which you’re invited to, by the way. Mum says she wants to meet you.”

Heat rises in Luke’s cheeks. He wraps his hands around his milkshake, staring down at the table where there’s a sprinkling of salt that he spilled earlier. “You told her about me,” he says in disbelief, mostly to himself. He lifts his gaze for a brief moment. “Does she really want to meet me?” he asks, shy around Calum for the for time in weeks.

“Of course,” Calum reassures him. 

“And do you want me to meet them?”

“Of course,” Calum repeats.

Luke nods, popping a few chips into his mouth with a smile. “Barbeque sounds good.”

Calum puts another piece of ice in his mouth, grins.

*

They decide to make a weekend of it.

Luke comes over to Calum’s on the Friday night, weighted down by a duffel bag over his shoulder and an eighteen-pack of Corona in his arms. “For your dad, not you,” he explains as he hands over the case, forearms shaking with the strain of carrying it all the way from the bus stop.  “There’s wine in the duffel for your mum.” Calum catches a glimpse of his hands as he takes the case; they’re worse than they’ve been for a while, a nasty red, cuticles in tatters, a single plaster around his right thumb.

There’s nothing sinister behind it, he finds—what Luke does to his hands, that is. Most of the time he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, asleep or bored, just a habit that he can’t shake. Other times he does it when he’s nervous, anxious, in need of some comfort. “It’s like sucking your thumb or biting your nails, I guess,” he explains though Calum never asks. He lets Luke open up on his own, not wanting to pry. “I hate when people stare,” he says, quieter, fingers flexing out in front of him. “I hate when people look at me funny.”

They’re sat on the couch, Calum’s feet resting up on the coffee table and Luke’s in Calum’s lap. Calum wraps his hands around Luke’s hairy ankles. “Fuck those assholes.”

“Yeah, fuck ‘em.”

Calum smiles, hands sliding down to give Luke’s feet a quick squeeze. He keeps them there as the movie—the South Park one they can both recite line for line—distracts them for a little while, occasionally causing them to burst out in fits of laughter. When a song comes on Calum moves Luke’s socked feet from side to side, back to front, until Luke can’t take any more and pulls his feet away. He jabs his big toe into Calum’s side, sticks his tongue out at him.

Somehow this ends with Calum’s t-shirt bunched up beneath his armpits, Luke blowing raspberries into the exposed skin of Calum’s stomach. Calum doesn’t fight the grip holding his hands down by his sides, just keeps calling Luke a weirdo, laughing and wriggling and wriggling and wriggling.

“Whatcha doin’?” Calum asks as Luke tugs down his sweats a little, blowing another raspberry on his hip. He lifts his backside off the couch, lets Luke take them all the way off. 

Luke sits back on his heels, shrugs innocently. It doesn’t suit him. His fingers skim the fabric of Calum’s boxer briefs, following a crease. "We won’t be able to fuck tomorrow.” Luke takes out Calum's cock with his right hand, spits on his left. Spit clings to his bottom lip. "I know how you get.” He slides his hand up awkwardly, muscles weak in his left hand, and rubs his thumb over the slit. Luke glances at Calum. “Can I fuck you?”

Calum blinks. "Sure. Here?”

Luke shakes his head, puts Calum’s cock away. “Bed,” he says, climbing off the couch and offering Calum a hand. It’s damp with spit still. He takes it anyway.

Calum settles down in bed as Luke rummages around in his nightstand for lube and a condom. With a cry too victorious for such a simple task, Luke tosses the lube at Calum, who catches it after fumbling for a moment. Luke’s back to him in no time, sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, facing Calum. He flips the condom between his fingers, waiting. “My fingers still hurt a little bit. Is it alright if you, y’know...?”

Calum gets it, douses his own fingers in lube and begins to open himself up for Luke. Luke smiles gratefully behind the curls that fall into his face, looking down. He frowns, pinches at one of his little tummy rolls.

Calum frowns too, stops moving his fingers. “Don’t do that. Watch me.”

“I am, I am,” Luke mutters, crawling clumsily to Calum, one hand shoving down his boxers as he goes. He pumps himself once, twice, three times before carefully ripping open the condom wrapper and rolling it on. “You look great.”

“Thanks. You want to get in me?”

“Romantic.”

“Do you?”

Luke laughs. "Can’t you tell?”

Calum removes his fingers, wipes them on Luke’s thigh. “Give me a kiss.”

Luke does, blindly groping for the lube. He squirts it into his palm, rubbing it over his cock.

“Come on.” Calum wraps his legs around Luke's waist, pulls him down for another kiss.

Calum’s moans grow soft as Luke pushes inside of him. "Yes, yes,  _yes_." Lips meet. There’s a mixture of pennies and tobacco on the tips of their tongues. "Right there." Calum tangles his fingers in Luke’s hair, pulls. "Luke." Calum's voice is raspy. "Luke.”

Luke, on the other hand, is whining, shaking from the effort of holding himself up. He’s going to come soon. He can feel it in his stomach, bubbling away, an apology already brewing in the back of his mind for when he comes too early and has to pull out. Calum knows, though. Calum knows Luke can’t last when he’s inside him, that it’s all a bit too overwhelming.

Luke doesn’t last another minute.

“Sorry,” he says. “Want me to eat you out?”

Calum purses his lips and nods. That’s a fair compromise.

After a brief absence, Luke returns, flopping down on his stomach, face landing between Calum’s thighs. Somewhere behind him, his legs hang off the bed, swinging like a giddy child. His beard is rough against the inside of Calum’s thighs, his arse. He’s a lot better at this than giving head, hence the offer.

Calum fists Luke’s hair in his hand, keeps his head down, moaning, grunting, "Shit, shit,  _fuck_." He comes, hard, quaking, and Luke cleans him up with his mouth, blowing more raspberries along the way. Calum never tells him to stop.

Luke sits up on Calum’s thigh. “Do you have any chocolate in the fridge?” Luke asks.

Calum raises an eyebrow and laughs. “Probably.” Sweat on his temples and touching his chest, Calum watches Luke climb off of him, heading straight for the door. “Get me something, too!” he calls after him, eyes on an angry red line running down his naked back. Calum brings his hands to his mouth, chews down his nails.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Luke says, armed with two Dairy Milks. He tosses one to Calum before flopping down beside him, turning onto his back and opening up his chocolate bar.

Calum narrows his eyes, pausing in pursuit of his first bite of chocolate. “Are you lecturing me about biting my nails?”

Luke stops sucking obscenely on the chocolate. “I wasn’t _lecturing_ you.”

“No, you were just being a little shit,” Calum says, poking the space between Luke’s ribs.

Luke pouts, but rolls over onto Calum, gets his revenge through a kiss full of chocolatey drool.

*

Calum blinks up at the ceiling, fingers linked across his chest.

He can’t sleep.

Neither can Luke.

“My stomach’s churning,” Luke whispers in the dark. He’s curled up tightly, facing Calum, knees almost tucked against his chest. His breath smells of chocolate. He’s so nervous, but he won’t admit it, just gnaws on the skin of his fingertips.

“Mine too,” Calum lies, reaching out to pull Luke’s fingers away from his mouth.

*

Calum smokes while Luke brushes his teeth and shaves. When he re-emerges, Calum laughs. “You look so cute.”

Luke pouts, fingers skimming his smooth chin. He turns to Calum, still smoking on the edge of his bed. “At least I can grow a beard when I want to.”

Calum clutches his chest dramatically. “Ouch. I might need to leave you at home for that one, Hemmings.”

“And disappoint your mum?” Luke laughs, poking around in his duffel bag and pulling out some clothes.

Calum gets up, smacks Luke’s bum as he passes him on the way to the bathroom. When he comes back, Luke has somehow managed to squeeze himself into a pair of black jeans and is pulling on one of his favourite baggy striped t-shirt.

“I meant it,” Calum says.

“What?” Luke says plopping himself down on Calum’s bed to pull on a pair of socks.

“You’re cute.”

Luke tucks his hair behind his ears, not quite blushing. “You, too.”

*

Calum’s childhood bedroom isn’t too dissimilar to Luke’s, save for the exercise equipment cluttering up most of the floor space. “Mum and dad went through this…phase after Mali and I left home,” Calum explains, battering an exercise ball out of the way so he and Luke can dump their stuff.

That’s the plan, anyway. Luke seems content to potter around Calum’s room, heading for the football trophies lining the back of his old computer desk. “What position did you play?”

“Centre-mid. Got shoved out to right-back a fair few times, though. Did you ever play?”

“Just for fun. Jack and Ben always made me go in goals when we played out back.” Luke picks up one of Calum’s medals, inspects it, and puts it back. He turns, hands on his hips. “Are we sleeping in here tonight?” he asks, eyes on the narrow bed.

Calum rolls a dumbbell further into the corner of his room. “That’s the plan,” he says, straightening up. “Right, come on, you. Mum’s going to be pissed enough when she finds out I’ve sneaked you up here before saying hello.”

Calum leads Luke through his parents’ house and out into the back garden. He’s not nervous about introducing Luke to them. He’s not. It’s Luke that’s nervous, chewing on the inside of his cheek because Calum can’t stop him doing that. It tastes like he’s been punched in the mouth. He keeps his hands firmly balled into the pockets of his denim jacket, following Calum through a crowd of unfamiliar faces, trying to hide.

For the most part, there’s nothing to be nervous about. Calum’s family is lovely; his mother talks amicably about how happy she is to finally meet him, and his father welcomes him to eat as much as he wants, even taking the time to pull the lid off his first beer of the afternoon. Mali makes a bigger fuss than his mum does, promising to tell Luke about every embarrassing event that has ever happened to Calum, from cradle to present. “You’re never allowed to speak to her again,” Calum says in faux seriousness, failing to keep a straight face.

Calum stays beside him the entire time, arm around his waist, pointing out old neighbours and whispering funny stories in his ear to keep him calm. It helps. And so does the alcohol. He doesn’t chew on his fingers once. By the end of the evening Luke is out of his shell but sporting that bleary-eyed, dopey look he gets when he’s drunk. Calum’s not much better.

“You have such a beautiful family,” Luke says, stripping down to his boxer briefs and t-shirt in the middle of the room, trying not to trip on anything.

Calum smirks up at him, sitting up against the headboard of his tiny bed. He scratches his chest then reaches out a hand, beckoning Luke over. Luke doesn’t need a second invitation, quickly tumbling onto the bed, climbing onto Calum’s lap, body heavy and warm with the buzz of alcohol. He kisses Calum, hands in his hair.

Instinctively, Calum’s hands bunch the fabric of Luke’s t-shirt at the small of his back. His fingers tighten as Luke presses himself closer to him. Warm, calm, Luke wants to kiss and be kissed. Calum runs his palms beneath the fabric of Luke’s t-shirt. Luke's skin is smooth, firm, soft. Luke is so soft. The softest, prettiest boy in the world. Calum’s intoxicated inner voice laughs.

Calum nuzzles Luke’s clothed chest. “Can I take this off?” he asks and Luke nods, lifting his arms obediently. With the barrier gone, Calum begins to nip and lick at Luke’s collarbones, hands laced against the arch of his spine.

Shutting his eyes, Luke purrs. Thankful, his fingers stroke through Calum’s hair, lips parting to giggle at Calum's hands grabbing his backside. They’re both half hard, but they can’t fuck. Not properly, at least. They can fuck when they go home tomorrow. With a distressed whine at the reminder, Calum slides his hands back up to Luke’s waist, settles them there.

A gentle sigh passes through Luke. He rests his cheek on the top of Calum’s head, fingers still playing in his thick, dark hair. “Do you ever think about dying?” Luke asks.

“Are you always this morbid when you’re drunk?”

“Just with you.”

“So I remind you of death. What an honour.”

“Calum.”

“Luke.”

“I’m serious. Do you?”

“No, if you must know.”

Luke slips off Calum’s lap. They rearrange themselves into a moderately comfortable position; Luke half on Calum’s chest, their legs entwined. It’s difficult in such a small space, but it’ll do. Calum rests his hand on Luke’s back, traces his fingers up the ridges of his spine. He tucks his other arm behind his head.

“What about you?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever think about it?”

Luke clenches his fingers atop of Calum’s chest, edge of his thumb brushing against his lips. In the dark, he tries to make out the shape of one of the medals across the room. He shakes his head. No. “Good night,” he mumbles, tucking his thumb back into his fist. He can’t hurt it there.

“Night, Luke.”

That night, Calum has this dream. It’s confusing, blurry, noisy. At first he can’t move, limbs stiff. He’s screaming. Someone else is screaming, too. Are they screaming for him? Are they screaming at him? By the time he can move, the screaming has ceased. His lungs burn from all the screaming. Or is it anger? Everything is red, cushioned in a dark mist. He’s running. Running so fast, so angry. There’s blood on his hands, on his clothes, in his mouth. The mist is gone but everything’s still red. Now there’s someone calling his name, weak and pained. _Calum. Calum. Calum_.

“Calum! Calum, let me go!”

Calum jolts awake, releases Luke from the vice-like grip he’s currently holding him in.

“Sorry,” he apologises, sitting up. He rubs a hand over his sweaty neck, presses his thumb and forefinger into his eyes and rubs.

Luke’s hand rests flat on the small of his back. “Bad dream?”

Calum nods.

He starts to rub circles into his back, comforting. “Like me, the first night we met.” Luke continues rubbing Calum’s back, sitting up beside him. “Want to talk about it?”

Calum shakes his head.

“Okay,” Luke says, leaning his head against Calum’s shoulder, tired. “Okay,” he says, and rubs and rubs and rubs.

*

They don’t talk about it, and for that, Calum is thankful, half convinced it was just the result of Luke being a melancholic bastard right before bed. Luke, on the other hand, is a little put out, so Calum takes him up into the loft the next day after lunch, promising to show him all the embarrassing pictures of him as a kid. He makes sure to take up a tub of a dozen vegemite-covered crackers and two bottles of Coke to tide them over.

Luke is in his element, laughing and cooing over old pictures of Calum, carefully flipping through photo album and after photo album, stretched out on the loft floor like a content cat. Calum leaves him to it, searching out more albums and boxes, huffing and hauling and breathing in too much dust. He only eventually joins Luke on the floor when he’s sure there’s no more photographs to find. He munches on a cracker, careful not to get crumbs or vegemite on any of the photos.

“Who’s this?” Luke asks every so often.

Sometimes Calum knows the answer. Sometimes he has no clue. This time he does. “That’s my granny. She lives in Scotland.”

“So, your dad’s mum?”

Calum nods, swallowing down a mouthful. “We used to visit a lot.” In fact, there are entire albums dedicated to their family trips to Edinburgh. “Not so much anymore. I’ve been meaning to go, but I’ve never got the time or money.”

“We should go one day.”

“Us?”

Luke’s broad shoulders tense, realising he’s overstepped a mark. His sorry is automatic and sincere. Calum doesn’t say anything, just takes another sip of juice.

Luke goes through a few more albums as Calum watches on silently, eating more than his share of the crackers. The younger boy says nothing, does nothing; he hasn’t even opened his juice. It crosses Calum’s mind to ask if Luke is feeling okay, but he can’t be that hungover if he is at all. He’s seen Luke in far, far worst states than last night, if last night could even be described as a state. He was happy, buzzed. He’s never quite the same sober.

Soon Luke moves onto the little folders of photographs that no one’s ever bothered to put in a photo book. “Who’s this?” Luke asks again, turning the photograph for Calum to see.

It’s of Calum, at a Hogmanay party, kissing another boy.

Calum swallows nothing. “That’s—”

“He’s very handsome,” Luke interjects, flipping the photo back around and tucking it to the back of the pile of photos in his hand. “There’s lots of you two,” Luke continues, shuffling through the photos. Something in his voice is strained—not jealous, just, again, put out. “You look happy.”

“Wrap it, Luke.”

Blue eyes stare holes into Calum, but he relents. “Sorry,” he says, abandoning the photographs. He moves embarrassedly to Calum, hides his face in the juncture of his neck. “I like you,” he mumbles. Calum puts a hand on his back, tightens a fist into the fabric of his t-shirt. “I like you a lot.”

Calum sighs. He kisses Luke’s temple. “I like you, too.” He’s quiet for a beat. “Just don’t—don’t be fucking weird over shit like this, okay?”

Luke pulls his head away, looks Calum straight in the eye as he nods. His lips turn up into a small smile for a moment.

Calum kisses the bridge of his nose. It's horrible, disgusting. They're sickening, smiling and giggling and poking each other in the ribs, surrounded by old photographs. Calum makes sure to kick away the ones that include Ashton as he wrestles Luke until his mother complains about the thumping. Neither of them need to see those.

*

“When we move in together, I’m carrying you over the threshold.”

Luke’s up on his knees, his shins, rocking and bouncing on Calum’s cock with his scabby fingers tight on his shoulders. It’s Monday. Labour Day. Calum celebrates with morning sex and making Luke do most of the work, only really helping when his cock slips out of Luke. He’s extremely talkative today.

“Is that so,” Calum groans.

“And if there’s stairs—oh fuck—I’ll carry you up them,” Luke says, leaning back and grinding down.

“You’d kill us both.”

“I know, but it’ll be so _fu-u-u-ucking_ romantic.” Luke’s face twists. He sits back on Calum, doesn’t move. His chest is almost as red as his cheeks.

“I fucked you after an hour of knowing you and our first date was at McDonald’s,” he points out and thrusts, growing bored of Luke’s laziness, holding him still by his hips. If he weren’t so lazy himself, he’d push Luke down onto his stomach and fuck him properly.

Luke jerks with every thrust, arms slipping to hook around Calum’s neck. He clenches his fists, kisses Calum like he’s never going to get another chance. It’s all a bit overwhelming. He needs Calum close, closer than he is now—which is impossible, he’s aware. Under his skin wouldn’t be enough, so the gentle thrusting of his cock, his tongue in his mouth and his fingers pressing into his flesh will have to do.

"Like this?" Calum whispers against Luke’s mouth, blunt nails digging into his thighs. "Right there?"

"Right there." Luke shifts, his head tilting back. "Cal,” he gasps.

Luke comes without a hand to his cock, babbling nonsense. Calum hugs him, panting, his own orgasm not long behind.

“You’re not carrying me anywhere,” Calum says afterwards, smacking his lips against Luke’s sweaty forehead.


	3. pity how the past killed us

Calum has that dream again.

It’s clearer this time, but just as chaotic, just as noisy. He screams, and someone screams for him. His lungs burn. His heart burns. There’s red mist everywhere, a faint taste of pennies in his mouth. Then there’s the blood on his hands and clothes, staining, dripping. It’s not his blood. It’s never his blood. The voice whimpering his name is familiar, pleading.

When he wakes up, Luke isn’t there. He should be, Calum thinks, sitting up and blinking in the dull light spilling down the hall from the bathroom. He finds Luke there, standing in front of the medicine cabinet, rummaging around, his right hand curled against his chest, bleeding.

Calum squints in the light, shielding his eyes behind the crook of his elbow. “Luke,” he says, “what are you doing?” He takes a step forward, warm soles of his feet meeting the cold bathroom tiles. It sends a shiver up his spine. “What happened?”

“Plasters,” Luke mumbles. “Don’t you have any plasters?”

Calum does, in the kitchen. Luke holds back a comment on the convenience of this particular placement until after Calum has covered where he’s bitten a scab off his thumb with a plaster. In fact, he holds it back altogether. “Sorry for waking you up,” he apologises instead, running his other thumb over the plaster.

They’re sat down at the kitchen table, neither one of them able to go back to sleep. Luke pushes around a glass of water on the wooden surface as Calum smokes, hand curled around an ashtray. It’s only five o’clock in the morning, but it’s December; the sun is already awake, setting the kitchen alight with a gentle glow. Luke thinks Calum looks lovely, circles under his eyes and all, but he never says.

Calum shrugs. “I was already up.”

Luke nods, rubs his tired eyes and takes a sip of water. Around the glass, his knuckles are the colour of snow. Calum half expects it to shatter under the pressure, tear Luke’s skin open properly, but Luke loosens his grip, his hand already sore. He starts sliding the glass across the surface again, a ring of condensation following it like a shadow.

Calum half-watches, vision obscured by smoke, the sting in his eyes, and doesn’t tell him to stop.

“Want to go back to bed?” Luke asks, drawing tiny shapes in the condensation with the edge of his pinky. When he looks up, Calum catches sight of his tired eyes. 

Calum lets a slow breath of smoke fill the space between them. “You go, if you’re tired,” he says, uncoiling his hand from the ashtray and reaching over to wrap his fingers around Luke’s wrist. He rubs his thumb over the back of Luke’s hand, following the path of the most prominent vein.

As if on cue, Luke yawns. He pouts, bleary-eyed. “Want you to come with me,” he mumbles, moving his hand and linking their fingers. “Please?”

Calum is weak. Weak for Luke in a way he’s not entirely sure that he understands. On the outside, he is abrasive, but on the inside, he is melting slowly, melding into the space between Luke’s sore fingers. He squeezes his hand gently, mindful, tells him he’ll be five minutes and gives his bum a little pat as he passes him, shuffling out of the kitchen, itching at his armpit as he goes. Calum can’t quite bite back a smile.

When he joins him, five minutes later, just as he promised, he’s carrying his laptop. “Gonna look at apartments,” he tells him as he slides into bed, neither of them beneath the sheets. It’s far, far too hot for that.

Curled up, Luke shifts closer to watch, nuzzles against the tattooed skin of Calum’s arm.

Without thinking, Calum lifts his arm and drapes it over Luke, fingers resting in his curls, still fluffy from the shower he took the night before. He stays like this as his laptop whirs into life, warm in his lap and illuminating Luke’s face.

Luke almost purrs at the feeling of Calum’s fingers massaging his scalp, heavy eyes struggling to stay open.

“This is nice,” Calum says, scrolling through a gallery of photos too quick for Luke to catch. “Fuck me, I’m not paying that much,” he mutters and clicks out of that apartment and onto another. It’s a bit of a shithole. Luke makes a small, disgruntled sound and Calum takes this as an indication to click back. “Not that one, then.”

Luke shuts his eyes, defeated. He turns his face into Calum’s arm, lips against his skin. “’On’t pick ‘ne wi’out me,” he mumbles. He tucks a fist under his chin, sore thumb hidden away.

Smiling down, Calum doesn’t bother asking him to repeat himself. He pets Luke’s hair, leans down and skims a kiss across his forehead. “Get some rest.”

Luke mumbles something, his usual c major nonsense and talk of green hair.

“Go to sleep, Lukey,” Calum soothes.

Luke does.

*

Calum goes over to Luke’s for dinner on Christmas Eve. He half expected Luke’s mum not to let him in when he knocks on the door armed with a bottle of red wine, but Luke insists she’s not that bad. Her joy will be a little forced, but she’ll never make Calum feel unwelcome as long as they’re together.

“Have you told her yet?” Calum asks, playing on his phone, legs hanging off the edge of Luke bed. Dinner’s not ready yet so they’ve escaped up to Luke’s room to do nothing. Calum’s currently entertaining himself by trying to match up the background of the nudes Luke sometimes sends him with places in his room.

“Was gonna do it tonight,” Luke says, slightly muffled from having his head stuck in his cupboard. Calum doesn’t mind; he’s got a great view of Luke’s arse from where he sits, both on screen and in real life.

When he eventually turns around, he’s holding something behind his back. Calum sighs. “We said no presents.”

“It’s not—it’s just.” Luke brings his hand forward, revealing a small bottle of nail polish. “It helps you stop biting your nails.”

Calum doesn’t say anything as he sits up and takes it from Luke. He’s not sure what kind of weird psychological projecting Luke is doing, but he doesn’t question it. He shakes the little bottle and reads the label. “Black,” he says and cracks a smile. “How goth.”

Luke smiles, relieved, and sits beside him, legs over his lap. “I’ll do them for you after dinner,” he says, lifting one of Calum’s hands. He kisses his fingertips, then parts his lips, lets Calum push his fingers into his mouth. It’s nice. A new form of comfort. Luke never bites, just sucks. There’s nothing sexual about it. With his eyes shut, Luke fists his free hand into the bottom of Calum’s button-down, momentarily noting to take the piss out of him later for dressing up nice to have dinner with his parents. He pulls back, rests his head against Calum’s shoulder, eyes on his damp fingers. “You can tell me to stop.”

“I like it.”

Luke laughs. “You’re weird,” he says, and pulls up the cuff of his hoodie, using it to dry Calum’s fingers.

Luke doesn’t tell his mum that they’ve found a place to live and he’ll be moving out by the end of January during dinner. “I couldn’t do it,” he says, kicking his bedroom door shut behind them. Calum’s not staying, but it’s not that late, still bright outside. “Fucking bottled it right when I was about to—”

“Hey, chill out,” Calum says. He places his hands on Luke’s shoulders, rests his forehead against Luke’s. “Chill out,” he repeats.

Luke does, eventually. He sinks into Calum, lets himself be held for a moment.

“Want to do my nails now?” Calum asks, muffled slightly by Luke’s hair.

Luke nods, gets to work. He’s quiet and meticulous as he paints Calum’s nails, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth through his teeth. When Calum asks him why he doesn’t ever do this himself, he mumbles, “Hurts,” and Calum understands. He blows gently on Calum’s nails, checks if its dry. “Looks good on you,” he tells him, making sure the lid is properly on the bottle.

Calum fans his fingers out in front of himself. “The guys at work will probably have a right go,” he laughs.

“Don’t you have to wear gloves to lift stuff?” Luke asks, picking at a loose bit of skin around his cuticle. He gives up, nibbles at it instead.

“Not all the time.”

“Just tell them your little cousin did it. Or pick it off. It was a stupid—”

“Why wouldn’t I tell them that my boyfriend did it? It’s not like any of the lads don’t know.” Calum doesn’t look at Luke while he speaks. He’s afraid to, or something. It’s still not something they’ve really discussed.

“Boyfriend?”

"Yeah," Calum says, slowly, casually. He tries to shrug it off, act like it’s no big deal. When Calum finally musters the balls to look up, Luke looks like he’s about to burst into tears. Calum doesn’t think he could ever look at him again if he makes him cry.  "It’s been six months, more or less, and we don’t see other people. Plus, we’re going to live together and it’s—it’s more than just sex to me so…”

“Me, too,” Luke adds quickly, not that it wasn’t painfully obvious on his part. “It’s more than sex, I mean.”

Calum almost thanks God aloud when a smile breaks across Luke face before he ducks it down shyly. Typical Luke.

They leave it at that, preferring to cuddle on Luke’s bed than choke on the embarrassment of talking about their feelings. They should talk about it, probably, set some boundaries and stuff, but neither of them really wants to. They’ve played it off by hand this far, so what’s a little while longer? Nothing, Calum concludes, rubbing his cheek against Luke’s chest and staying there until he has to leave.

“I’ll tell my mum,” Luke promises, fingers curled around the front door.

Calum kisses him goodbye, giving his waist a little squeeze.

*

_Merry Christmas!! <3 xx_

Calum smiles, rubbing his eyes as he stares down at the bright screen of his phone. It’s barely a minute past midnight.

_merry christmas lukey x_

_*_

Luke’s working on Boxing Day, but he finishes early. Calum promises to pick him up.

Calum steps out of his car and catches Luke when he throws himself into his arms. He stumbles, bumps back against his car. They laugh through their kisses.

“How was your Christmas?” Luke asks once they’re inside the car. He unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt, places his nametag up on the dashboard and laughs when Calum says he shouldn’t be getting his tits out when he’s driving. “You cheeky fuck,” he says, reaching over to pinch Calum’s bare arm when they stop at a light.

Calum gives him a playful smack on the thigh back. “Yeah, decent.” He pats his stomach. “Think I’m still full from Christmas dinner, though. You?”

“It was good.” Luke’s quiet for a moment, looking up at the lights change from red to amber to green. “Mum and dad got me an IKEA gift card. To buy furniture.”

Calum doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but he knows Luke is smiling.

“Can I suck your cock?” is the first thing Luke says when they get to Calum’s place, kicking off his shoes at the door. He’s in a good mood, Calum can tell. Spirit of Christmas and all that, he supposes. “Please?” he whines, fingers curling into the waistband of Calum’s basketball shorts.

Calum smiles and kisses him, no pennies in his mouth. Luke’s calm, happy. Luke wants to suck cock. Luke wants to suck his boyfriend’s cock—and Calum is more than happy to indulge him.

It’s typically Luke; uncontrolled, head bent low to leave a trail of kisses on Calum’s abdomen and graze his teeth on his hip bones. He’s quick, vulgar, nuzzling into Calum’s pubic hair as he fills his hands with his thighs, spreading his legs apart to accommodate his broad frame.

“Yeah," Calum sighs, rising onto his elbows but rolling his head to the side. “Good boy.”

Luke looks up at him through his eyelashes, lips parted and tongue out, when Calum reaches down to thread his fingers through his hair. It’s getting long, Calum muses, his black nails peeking through the blond strands. Maybe he’ll let Luke touch them up later. Maybe they’ll be too exhausted when their done. At that thought, Calum moans as Luke runs his tongue up the side of his cock, slow, blue eyes still on him, watching.

Just when he usually gets messy, gets sloppy, overcome by enthusiasm and praise, Luke slows. He gets Calum’s cock wet with drool, spit, and pulls back, wraps a tight fist around and jerks him. Luke’s calm, happy; there’s no plasters around any of his fingers. It feels nicer for them both. It’s even better when Luke replaces his fist with his mouth, going all the way down until his nose is buried in Calum's pubes. He’s calm, happy with a cock down his throat.

“Getting better at this, babe,” Calum praises, choked. He cards his fingers through Luke’s hair as he begins to bob his head up and down, only gagging when his own spit almost goes down the wrong way and he has to choke it back up again. To make it easier for him, Calum lets go of Luke’s hair, focuses on keeping his hips still. “Finally putting that big mouth to good use."

Luke pops off, giving the head of Calum’s cock a quick lick. "Fuck up, asshole," he says, taking hold of Calum's cock and rubbing the tip over his tongue.

“Seriously, I was going to sue for false advertisement,” Calum teases, then moans, Luke’s fist tightening around him, accompanied by a devilish smile. “Thought you wanted to suck my cock?” Calum says, fingers coming up to rest on the back of Luke’s neck, encourage him down.

Luke does go down again, swallowing, hollowing out his cheeks, loosening his throat. He spits, slurps and hums, reverting to his old technique just to spite Calum. He’s playing him, purposely being the annoying little shit that Calum has welcomed into his more times than he cares to count; who Calum has given his own drawer to; who Calum goes out and buys Cheerios for, just to make sure he’s less of a dragon in the morning. Calum bucks his hips, though whether this is involuntarily or on purpose, he’s not even sure himself.

With only a, “Fucking Christ, _Luke_ ,” as a warning, Calum comes in Luke's mouth. Surprised, Luke’s eyes widen and he tries to stay down. He fails, naturally, sits back and chokes into his hand, trying to keep it in. Come drips through the spaces between his fingers onto the sheet below. Watching, Calum can’t help himself. "Swallow it,” he says, demanding.

Luke’s eyes are still wide and watery. He looks like he might protest, but Luke always does what he’s told and licks his palm clean. When he pulls his hand away, there’s semen and saliva dripping from his chin.

Calum smiles, reaches over and collects the mess around Luke’s mouth and slides his fingers into Luke’s mouth. He sucks on them diligently. “Good boy.”

Luke pulls off. “Calum,” he groans, unbuttoning his work trousers. “Your turn.”

Positions reversed, Calum gets Luke’s cock out, licks up the sides.

Luke moans. “Please,” he says, not bothering to sit up on his elbows. It’s too hot. He’s too exhausted. He’s so hard already. “ _Calum_.” His hips twitch, weak; it’s oddly cute, Calum finds himself thinking, taking a moment to admire the younger man’s mewling and moaning.

When Luke comes, which doesn’t take very long, Calum swallows it all. He can’t help crawling up over Luke’s body, grinning down at him cockily before kissing him, soft, wet lips sliding together.

“Didn’t even get any come on my shirt!”

“Oh my God,” Calum groans, slapping a hand over Luke’s mouth as he laughs. “Unbelievable.”

While Luke changes into a pair of shorts and t-shirt—both items belonging to Calum despite the abundance of his own clothes that have managed to migrate across the city—Calum makes up some turkey sandwiches, too lazy to make anything else, with the leftover turkey his mum wrapped up for him to take home. There’s trifle in the fridge for later.

Later, full of turkey and trifle, Luke spoons up against Calum on the sofa, sticky from the heat, mutters, “Merry Christmas.”

Calum turns his head, gives Luke a sticky kiss. He finds Luke’s hand, soft and dry, because Luke is calm, happy, without looking, tucks it to his chest. “Merry Christmas.”

*

He has that dream again.

He’s angry. He’s so fucking angry that he kills someone. He fucking kills someone. He grabs them by the front of their jacket and slams them against a wall. He keeps doing that. Slam, slam, slam. The person slumps to the floor, disorientated, begging for him to stop. No. No, he won’t stop. They deserve to die for what they did. He kicks them. He kicks them to death. Drops to his knees, he punches them, again and again and again. Everything’s red. Everything’s bloody.

When he wakes up, he’s alone. Luke’s not here. Luke’s at home, snoring into his pillow and dreaming of his newfound freedom, content, sucking and chewing on his fingers like a teething baby.

He gets up, has a smoke, jerks off to some nudes Luke sent him and falls asleep wondering what happened to the voice that used to scream for him.

*

On New Year's Eve, they sit on the couch and watch the celebrations on television. They’re both a little drunk, leaning into each other and complaining about the heat.

“What were your New Year’s resolutions for this year?” Luke asks, his head resting against the top of Calum’s arm.

“Don’t know,” he says. He takes a swing of his beer. “Don’t even remember making any.”

“I wanted a boyfriend. And to move out.”

Calum pats the top of Luke’s head. “Done not too bad, eh?”

Luke grabs Calum’s hand, pulls it around himself. He nuzzles closer to him, bringing up his other hand to lay on Calum’s chest, feel his heart. There’s nothing more calming, more hypnotic, than the steady _thumpthumpthump_ of Calum’s heart.

A red-headed woman on the television announces that there’s only fifteen minutes left of the year to go. Calum lights a cigarette in celebration, lets Luke have the first drag. “What about for next year?” Calum asks, watching Luke exhale through his nose.

“Get fit,” he says. It’s generic. Calum doesn’t know why he expected Luke to say something about eating his own hands. “Maybe play guitar more.”

Calum blinks. “I didn’t know you could play the guitar.”

Luke shrugs, holding out his hand for the cigarette again. “Hurts my hands,” he says simply, staring down at his fingers. There’s no plasters, but the tips are still discoloured and rough. “What about you?”

“Stop biting my nails,” Calum says, if only to make Luke happy. Really, he wants to stop having those dreams, he wants to sleep more, but he doesn’t tell Luke. Luke doesn’t have to know everything. He reaches over to the coffee table, stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.

A few minutes to midnight, Calum pulls Luke closer, slips his hands up the back of his t-shirt. Faintly he hears fireworks set off prematurely down the street.

“Gonna be a good year, Cal,” Luke says, pressing his fingers into Calum’s face, squishing his cheeks. There’s something in his eyes that convinces Calum that it must be true. “A great fucking year.”

When it strikes midnight, when one year ends and another begins, Luke leans forward, kisses Calum straight on the mouth. It’s not a great kiss. Their lips are sticky with beer. They taste of tobacco. No pennies. Their noses bump and Luke’s beard is rough against Calum’s skin. It’s perfect.

“Happy New Year.”

*

Luke sleeps, fingers in his mouth.

Calum watches him in between dreams, reaches over, eases the fingers out of his mouth and replaces them with his own.

*

It’s a beautiful day outside. Luke stares at the blue sky through the window, no breeze fluttering the curtains. Calum is fucking him, slowly, gently. Earlier, he asks Luke if he wants it rough, but he shakes his head. He wants it like this; on his stomach, Calum sitting back on his thighs, hands resting on the curve of his bum. Slow. Calum’s going so slow. Luke rests his chin on his clenched fists. There’s not a cloud in the sky.

Luke lets out a breathy whimper. It’s the first noise he’s made in a while.

“Like this?” Calum asks, unsure. “This what you want?”

“Yeah,” Luke sighs, arching his back. He’s still a little damp in places from his shower. The thick clump of curls at the back of his head is still wet underneath. Calum shifts, hands moving to the dip of his spine. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Calum smiles. He wants to dig his nails into Luke’s skin, but he refrains. He doesn’t need to scratch lines into Luke’s back to prove that he’s his. “Right there?”

“Right there.” Luke moans, moving his hands to grip the pillowcase by his head. “Calum.”

“What is it?”

“ _Calum_.” Luke chokes, sounds like he’s crying. He is crying, sobbing, shuddering. “Don’t stop.” Calum should stop. He doesn’t know why Luke is crying so he should stop. He doesn’t, though, because Luke tells him not to. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

“Alright, alright,” Calum soothes, moving his hips.

He doesn’t stop until Luke comes, whimpering and tight around him. He pulls out gently then, not wanting to hurt him, and drops onto his back. He gets himself off quickly. Luke doesn’t move.

“Luke,” he says, grabbing a tissue. When Luke lifts his head at the sound of his name, he wipes Luke’s freshly shaven face free of tears and snot and drool. Beneath him there’s a thin half-curve of red-brown on the pillow, blood pooling in a shallow crevice of his lip. Even like this, he’s still the prettiest boy in the world. “You okay?”

Luke nods, smiling. If it’s fake, Calum doesn’t want to know. The sick feeling building up at the back of his throat subsides. He gives him a kiss on the forehead, and Luke gives him a lazy one back on the cheek.

*

He uses a knife this time. It’s quicker, less personal than his fists. It should be cleaner, too, but Calum doesn’t stop. He keeps stabbing the fucker. _You killed him_ , he’s screaming. _You killed him. How could you? How could you kill him? He was good and you took him. You took him. He didn’t deserve to die. How could you?_

His lungs hurt from all the screaming, all the breathing he’s not doing.

*

When Calum wakes up, Luke is there. He’s asleep, fists tight against his chest, frowning in his sleep. Calum tries not to wake him up as he gets out of bed and saunters his way up the hall and into the bathroom. He flicks on the light, momentarily blinding himself, but adjusts slowly, blinking his vision back to normal.

He stares into the mirror above the sink. His eyes are tired, straining against the light and accented with dark semi-circles underneath. He tilts his face, scratches his jawline, pads of his fingers brushing over his stubble. Lips turning up into a small smile, he presses his fingers into his cheeks in the same way Luke often does, pushing and contorting them, making funny faces back at himself.

Still laughing to himself, he squats down and opens the cabinet beneath the sink, takes out the hair clippers.

It’s a tradition of sorts, cutting his hair around this time of year.

When he first did it, Mali asked him why he was acting like one of those over emotional women on TV when they had a breakdown. The second time he did it, she helped him. Ashton helped him after that.

Calum runs his fingers through his hair and turns on the clippers. The hum fills the small bathroom, but it’s probably not loud enough to disturb Luke. Or maybe it is. Calum only finished a few wayward lines before Luke appears in the mirror behind him, yawning, rubbing at his eyes, looking especially soft in just his little grey boxer briefs and tired glow.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, stepping further into the bathroom.

Calum clicks the clippers off. “What does it look like?”

Luke comes to a stop right behind Calum, the heat of his body radiating off him. He brushes some hair off Calum’s bare shoulder.

“Can I?” Luke asks and Calum hands over the clippers without a word, sits on the edge of the bath. “I’ll go slow,” he promises, turning the clippers back on, pressing them to the base of Calum’s neck and tilting his head forward with his free hand.

Luke shaves Calum’s head with the same concentration that he paints his nails, tongue poking out the side of his mouth. He’s gentle but firm, pausing every so often to brush away some hair from Calum’s head and shoulders. Calum’s back itches, but he doesn’t complain. Around him a pile of his hair builds, getting on his skin, the floor, in the bath. Luke grimaces when he stands in some, and Calum laughs.

When Luke finishes, he puts the clippers aside, rubs his palms over the bristly curve of Calum’s skull. Luckily, he’s got a nicely shaped head. Still, Luke pouts.

“You don’t like it?” Calum asks, standing up to inspect it in the mirror. It looks the way it always does.

Luke shrugs. “I’ll get used to it.” He rocks on the spot, runs his fingers through his curls. “Do me?”

Calum whips around quickly, eyebrows raised. “I’m not cutting your hair, Luke.”

“I cut yours.”

“That’s different,” Calum tells him, weak an argument as it is. “You’re being impulsive.”

“Everyone says I need a haircut.”

“Fuck what other people say; it’s your hair.”

Luke stares at himself in the mirror, still touching his hair. It’s stupid, really. So trivial. He moves his fingers down to his mouth, chews on his cuticles.

“Go back to bed. I’ll clean this up.”

When Calum finishes cleaning up, Luke is still awake. He’s waiting for him. He didn’t do that the first night they met, but he does now. It’s endearing, but Calum doesn’t feel like talking. As soon as he slides into bed, Luke is around him, slotting their legs together, cheek on Calum’s chest. Their sweaty skin sticks together uncomfortably, but Calum doesn’t dare tell Luke to move.

“Please don’t ever dye your hair,” Luke says out of the blue, half mumbling.

Calum pulls a face, confused. “Why?”

“I’ll forget.”

“Being a bit cryptic, here, Lukey boy. What’ll you forget?”

“Things,” he says, simply.

“What sorts of things?”

“Important things,” Luke sighs, tucking his fist beneath his chin. Calum strokes his hair. “I’ll forget when they happen, what you looked like—that’s what I’ll forget. What you looked like. I can never tell—I can never remember…”

“Okay, I promise,” he says, but he’s not being sincere. Luke’s probably just half asleep, taking his seemingly strong dislike for dyed hair out on Calum. It’s kind of funny. He chuckles. Of all the aversions. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Cal.”

Calum sleeps. He doesn't dream.


	4. this could be heartbreak

Duvet kicked to the floor, sheets damp from their sweat, they fuck. Luke is sitting on Calum's hips this time, rolling, rocking, not really moving. He’s tired. Calum’s tired. It’s also Calum’s birthday, so Luke perseveres, leaning back, arms shaking.

Afterwards, Calum smokes and Luke grabs some chocolate from the fridge. He’s not doing particularly well at sticking to his New Year’s resolution, but Calum says nothing, takes the piece of chocolate that Luke snaps off and hands to him. He pops it into his mouth, already melting, and watches Luke do the same, peeling the package all the way open and licking the melted chocolate from the inside of the wrapper. Calum can’t help but smile.

Luke dumps the wrapper on the nightstand, sucking some chocolate from his fingers. “Don’t be mad,” he says, getting up again and crouching down to his drawer. “I know you said not to get you anything—”

“Luke,” Calum sighs.

“—but this is technically for the both of us.” Luke straightens up, an envelope in his hands, and throws himself back onto the bed once Calum has moved his ashtray out of the way, joining the chocolate wrapper on the nightstand. “Plus, twenty-five’s a big one,” he adds, offering out the envelope for Calum to take and shifting around a little, his backside still sore.

Calum takes it. His eyes don’t leave Luke’s face as he tears open the envelope.

It’s a pair of concert tickets.

“I noticed you had a few Amity Affliction CDs when we were packing up some of your stuff,” Luke explains, shuffling closer to Calum. His skin of his thigh is warm, sweaty, sticking to Calum’s. “Since they were playing here soon I thought, y’know, we could go. And it’s not until March, so we’ll be well settled by then, won’t we? In our new place. We’ve never gone to a gig together so…yeah.” He’s rambling. It’s cute. “I thought it’d be fun. And they’re sick live. I watched some videos and—”

Calum takes pity, snakes an arm around Luke’s waist and gives him a wet kiss on the temple. “Thanks, babe.”

Luke smiles, content, and leans into Calum. He lifts his hand, smooths it across Calum’s head. His hair is longer now, but it’s still prickly to the touch. Luke likes it.  

“Do you think you could play one of their songs for me?”

It’s been almost a month. Calum still hasn’t heard Luke play the guitar.

Luke pulls away from Calum. He lies down. He’s tired. “Maybe,” he mutters, mouth welling with the taste of pennies. “My fingers—” 

“Luke.” Calum lies beside him, noses an inch or two apart. He presses his fingers against Luke’s bottom lip, pushes them inside his mouth, watches as his eyelids flutter shut.

*

Luke’s stressed. His fingers pay the price.

“Can’t help me lift boxes with sore finger,” Calum says, standing to get plasters.

Calum’s stressed. His nails pay the price.

“Wait here, I’ll re-do your nails,” Luke says, standing to get the nail polish.

“Do my toes as well.”

Luke wrinkles his nose. “It’ll look like you’ve got bruised toenails.”

“Sick.”

They sit together on the living-room floor, Calum’s foot resting up on Luke’s lap as he carefully paints his nails. Calum leans back, carpet burn on his elbow, and watches him, occasionally wiggling his toes just to annoy him. Luke threatens to bite off his toes if he doesn’t stop it, stares, serious, then bursts into a high-pitched giggle. He accidently gets a stroke of black nail polish on his cheek while attempting to cover his mouth, embarrassed.

It’s their last night together in this apartment. They celebrate by doing nothing productive, avoiding the stress of moving, eating Chinese food and seeing how many chicken balls Luke can fit in his mouth. A little while later, they’re singing and dancing and _drunk_. Calum supposes this is as good a time as any to piss off his neighbours, dutifully changing the CD in the player to some Biffy Clyro, per Luke’s request.

Luke is in his element again, standing in the middle of the living-room, swaying himself to the beat of a slower song. “We’re users,” Luke sings, can of beer his mic in hand, “but at least we use each other, friend.” It’s loud and obnoxious, just like Luke tends to be when he’s drunk, but beneath that, Luke’s voice is lovely. He’s lovely. A lovely human being.

Calum made the right choice.

“Dance with me,” Luke says, bopping around to a beat that doesn’t match the music. It’s doesn’t match any music. Calum wants to hear the songs inside Luke’s head. “Dance with me, Cal.”

Calum does.

Luke doesn’t put down his beer, just holds it against Calum’s hip, the other awkwardly hooked around his neck. Drunk, Calum’s dark eyes twinkle with mischief as Luke’s droop with a lazy smile, staring, blue melting into brown. Calum keeps one of his hands on the small of Luke’s back, the other coming up to scratching along his beard, stroking his jaw. They kiss, wet and open and perfect.

Calum made the right choice.

Much later, Calum isn’t entirely proud of all his choices when he wakes up with a hangover and Luke’s hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake. He’s warm, comfy despite the position he’s fallen asleep in on the couch. He stretches, grumbling, as Luke mentions something about _coffee_ and _time to get this show on the road_. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, open his mouth, get up, but he does. “Who even says that?” he grouses, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I do,” Luke says. He’s already dressed, wide awake in a way Calum’s never witnessed. His excitement washes off him in waves. “Come on,” he says, smacking Calum’s backside. “Up. Ben will be here soon.”

After a cautious retch over the toilet and two cups of coffee, Luke declares Calum fit to go.

*

They settle on a house, not an apartment. It’s got two bedrooms, one bathroom, and air conditioning that growls into life. It’s small, light, homely. The rent isn’t crippling. Everyone on the street that comes to poke their noses into their business as they unpack is at least sixty years old or pushing a pram. Calum’s aware of it, but Luke is blissfully ignorant, chattering away to Ben as they hold each end of a table, depositing it in the living-room along with everything else Calum and Luke collectively own.

Calum leaves, briefly, to hand back the keys to his old apartment. By the time he returns, Ben is gone, and Luke is sat outside, long legs stretched out in front of him as he perches on the front step. Calum gets out of his car slowly, eyes on Luke, and stops before him.

“What are you doing?”

Luke tilts his head up. He looks exhausted, but he’s smiling. “Waiting for you.”

Calum takes out his lighter and cigarettes, sits himself down beside Luke, knocking their knees together. “Want one?” he asks. When Luke nods, he plucks one out of the packet, places it between Luke’s lips and lights it for him. He takes it back to light his own, tip to tip.

Luke leans into Calum as he smokes, shoulder to shoulder, and Calum drapes an arm loosely around his waist, squeezing his side out of habit, eyes shut, listening the scratch of the gravel beneath their feet when they move an inch.

“Can’t believe this, man,” Luke says, flicking away some ash. Calum opens his eyes, look down at where Luke’s temple is resting on his shoulder now. He’s at an awkward angle, slouching, slightly too tall, but Calum doesn’t adjust his own body. “Can’t believe it.”

Calum runs his hand from Luke’s waist, up his back, all the way to his neck, threading his fingers through the curls that gather there.  He makes a small noise around his cigarette, a sort of _go on_.

Luke shrugs. “Just can’t believe we’re here, together. Living here together. I never thought—never imagined that we’d, y’know, get to this.”

Calum takes the cigarette away from his mouth, stubs it out on the side of the step. Calum can’t believe it either; back when they met, all he wanted was to kiss the prettiest boy in the club, take him home, fuck him. Shacking up with him after seven months wasn’t in the masterplan, but it’s what he’s got now, and Calum made the right choice. He knows he did. He reaches out, brushes off some ash that’s settled on Luke’s sweats.

“Me neither.” Calum slides his hand down an inch, palms Luke’s neck before tightening his grip. He pulls him in for a kiss. When he pulls back, he nuzzles into the thin facial hair on Luke’s cheek.

They sit there together for a little while longer. It’s quiet, innocent, intimate.

Then Luke picks at his fingers.

“What’s wrong?” Calum asks, moving his on hand, curling his fingers around Luke’s.

“It’s nothing.” Luke doesn’t want to talk about it, so the conversation is over. It can’t be anything too bad, Calum reasons, filling the gaps between Luke’s fingers with his own. “Hey, want to consummate our new place?”

Calum snorts. “You want to fuck?”

Luke slips his hand out of Calum’s, starts to stroke where Calum’s shorts finish and his skin starts. He pushes his hand up his shorts, biting down on his lower lip, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Calum chances a glance at the street; it’s empty. They’re already old news.

“On every flat surface.”

Calum laughs. “Easy, tiger.”

“What? Who even says that?” Luke teases and pushes his hand further up Calum’s shorts, wiggles his eyebrows.

Calum laughs harder.

They don’t fuck. In fact, Luke’s asleep almost as soon as he drops down on the unmade mattress they just about managed to drag from the living-room into the larger of the two bedrooms. Calum chuckles, retreats into the living-room to find the box full of bed linen and grabs a bedsheet from inside. It’s still hot, so it’ll do. Before he crawls next to Luke, he tugs off the younger man’s sweats, not wanting him to overheat. Satisfied, he spoons up against Luke, lowering his head to kiss at his freckled shoulder and tries to get some sleep.

*

Calum has that dream again.

It’s clearer. He watches one man die, and kills the man that killed him. Everything is bloody, everything is red. He can’t see their faces. He doesn’t want to.

When he wakes up, it’s still dark. Beside him, Luke sucks on his fingers, sighing happily in his sleep. Calum leaves him be.

*

“Do you think we need a sideboard?” Luke asks Calum, sitting up in bed, legs crossed, IKEA catalogue open in his lap. He picks at a spot on his forehead as he frowns down at the catalogue, baulking at the price. He digs the scab out of his nail with his teeth. “I don’t think we need one,” he answers himself, flicking right back to the contents page. “What about towels? Do you think we need more towels?”

Calum finishes stripping off his work clothes. “I don’t know. Do what you want, babe,” he says, momentarily leaving the room to shove his dirty clothes in the washing basket. When he comes back, Luke has abandoned the catalogue on the floor in favour of sitting up on his knees, hands resting on his thighs. A small bit of blood swells on his forehead from where he picked off the scab. Calum walks around their bed, licks his thumb, wipes the blood away.

Calum flops back into bed, landing right beside Luke. He reaches over, rubs a hand over Luke’s thigh, fingers slipping beneath the leg of his boxer briefs. He watches Luke wipe his saliva off his forehead with the back of his hand, huffing.

“Something up?” Calum asks, squeezing down on the soft inside of his thigh.

For once, Luke doesn’t beat around the bush. “Mum wants to come over.”

This doesn’t exactly surprise Calum. Luke’s mum calls him every couple of days, and Calum listens in to the same conversation each time. Luke loves his mum, probably more than anyone else in the world, but there was a reason he was so quick to want to live with Calum.

“Invite your parents over. I’ll invite mine, too.”

Luke moves. He sits on Calum’s lower thighs, caresses his abdomen with rough fingers. The skin is hard, healing; Luke’s been good recently.

“Yeah?”

Calum rests his hands on Luke’s waist, beneath his t-shirt. He drums his fingers on his skin. “Yeah.”

Luke sucks on his cheeks, no teeth. He shifts forward, right on to Calum’s crotch. He knows exactly what he’s doing. “After Valentine’s Day, though.”

Calum cracks a smile. “You taking me somewhere nice?” he asks, moving his hands to cup Luke’s backside.

Luke doesn’t respond, just smiles and shrugs.

He probably won’t, but Calum doesn’t care. Especially now when he’s half-hard. “Grind against me,” he says, trying to encourage Luke to move, fingers tightening. He stops Luke as he’s about to raise onto his knees, presumably to take off his underwear. He doesn’t explicitly say he wants Luke to come in his pants, but Luke gets it. Calum keeps his on, too.

They end up chest to chest, hips to hips, legs entwined. Their bodies are warm, tired from work, so Luke takes it easy at first, moving slow on top of Calum, and Calum enjoys it. Luke’s hair falls in Calum’s face as he kisses him despite what Calum has managed to tighten into a fist at the back of Luke’s head, his other hand slipped down the back of Luke’s underwear, just resting there gently, keeping him moving.

Luke leans forward, rests his forehead against Calum’s, rubs his hands over Calum’s head. He whines low in his throat, eyes squeezing shut, cheeks pink. He wants to reach down, touch his cock, touch Calum’s cock, but he doesn’t.

“From this, just from this,” Calum whispers to him. “Just from this. Keep moving, babe.”

Luke comes as they kiss again, hips twitching down on Calum’s. He whines again, high, brows furrowed, nose scrunched, eyes shut. The dampness through his underwear is enough to set Calum off after a few more minutes. They lay there while their highs cease, kissing lazily. Calum rubs Luke’s back, mumbling about how pretty he is, what a good boy he is. 

They shower together. It’s Luke’s idea and it’s a tight fit. They don’t fuck because neither of them trust themselves not to end up breaking a leg. “Don’t know how they do that in porn,” Calum says, rubbing shampoo into Luke’s scalp. It’s hard; he’s got a lot of hair. “They should show outtakes.”

“Porn outtakes?” Luke laughs, reaching out to cup a handful of water and wash away some of the shampoo that’s close to his eyes. “What like: Daddy Bear Crushes Blond Twink in Hilarious Bareback Shower Scene.”

Calum laughs. “Bet you’ve deleted a lot of internet history over the years. Either that or you’ve exposed your past porn career,” he says. “That’s you,” he adds, nudging Luke further under the spray to rinse his hair. 

“This is only the start, you know,” Luke says, head tilted back under the water, pushing a hand through his hair. “Next we’ll be popping each other’s spots and shaving each other’s pubes.”

Calum trails a hand down to Luke’s groin, brushes his soft cock with his knuckles. “I did let you shave my head.”

Luke laughs again, and it’s glorious.

*

Just as Calum suspected, they don’t go out for Valentine’s Day. He’s not exactly disappointed, fingers hovering over the tray of chocolates Luke got him, feet up on the coffee table. Luke shoves them off when he returns with two beers, telling Calum to start the movie. It’s about as romantic as they’re ever going to get.

Later that night Calum holds onto the headboard, rocking back and forth on Luke’s cock, thighs pressing against his hips. Calum’s own cock is in Luke’s hand, hard, leaking, too tempting not to touch. Luke’s lasting longer than normal, so it’s pleasant, but he doesn’t come. Luke doesn’t come until Calum’s got three fingers inside him, massaging his prostate, biting at his hip. When he comes over his own stomach, Calum draws a small love heart in his semen.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, babe,” he says, wiping his dirty finger along Luke bottom lip.

Luke follows the same path with the tip of his tongue, smiles.

*

“Don’t you have fives tonight?” Luke asks Calum one evening.

Calum shrugs. He can’t be bothered going. “Bit tired,” he says, rolling his head on the back of the couch. “You trying to get rid of me?” he jokes.

Luke doesn’t laugh. Instead, he smiles. “Maybe,” he says, and disappears into the spare room, shutting the door behind him.

Calum resists the urge to stand outside and listen to Luke play guitar. He’ll let him listen when he’s ready, he figures.

*

Shortly after Luke starts playing his guitar again, he starts working out. He’s too cheap to buy a gym membership, so he buys some shitty workout DVDs instead. One day Calum comes home from work to find him puffing and panting in the living-room, trying to follow the steps of the guy on screen. Calum leans against the doorframe, just watching him, until he notices.

“Go away,” Luke pants. “I’m jiggling.”

“I like it when you jiggle,” Calum says, stepping into the living-room. He lies down on the sofa, continues to watch Luke become redder and redder in the face, his little manbun slowly slipping out.

“If this Wolverine motherfucker tells me to do burpees one more time, I swear to God,” Luke wheezes during an interval, doubled over and holding his waist. Calum almost feels bad for staring at his arse as he bends over to catch his breath. Almost. Luke twists around, catches Calum staring. “Pervert.”

Calum holds up his hands. “If I’m not allowed to look, who is?”

Luke’s about to say something, but his rest interval is over.

It’s not just the fitness DVDs. Luke’s started to go running as well. It’s relaxing despite the burn in his legs that he complains about, face down on the sofa, clutching his water bottle close. If he’s extra lucky, Calum will agree to come with him.

Like today.

“This is nice,” Luke says, putting his foot up on a bench to re-tie his laces and tighten his bun.

Calum drops down onto the bench, taking off his snapback to run a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Nice isn’t exactly the adjective he’d use, reaching down to rub his sore calf muscle.

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning. The park they’ve been running around is beginning to fill with dog walkers and excited children, closely followed by their slightly less enthusiastic parents. Calum pets a dog when it comes sniffing at his ankles.

Luke sits beside him, fingers curled around the edge of the bench. His legs bounce up and down.

“I want a dog,” Luke says as another one trots by, ears flapping.

“Right now?” Calum asks.

“Nah, one day. A big one. That I can cuddle.” Luke wraps his arms around himself as if to illustrate his point.

“Me, too.”

They look at each other and smile.

*

He has that dream again and again and again.

*

Calum comes home late. After work, he goes over to his parents’ house for dinner. He texts Luke during the day to ask if he wants to come, but he declines. He doesn’t question why.

The house is quiet. It’s not that late, but Luke’s been busy at work, training some new starts that don’t know how to use a till, apparently, so it wouldn’t surprise Calum to find him already tucked up in bed, sleeping soundly with his fist curled up beneath his chin or his fingers in his mouth. He isn’t, though. Not in their bedroom, anyway. Instead, Calum finds him curled up on the floor of the spare room, dressed in a pair of boxer briefs and that hideous grey hoodie, stained with blood at the cuffs. Calum’s laptop is open in front of him, his guitar abandoned by his side.

He walks over to Luke, crouches down, shakes him gently. “Babe,” he says. “Babe, wake up, you’ll do your back in sleeping here.”

Luke’s not in a deep sleep. He wakes up easy, blinking, the imprint of the carpet on one side of his face. He doesn’t look at Calum the way he usually does. When Calum reaches out to tuck a stray curl behind his ear, he jerks away like a kicked dog.

There’s dry blood on his left hand, on the neck of his guitar.

It hurts him. It hurts him to play guitar.

“Luke—”

Luke stumbles to his feet ignoring Calum. He’s out of the room before Calum can call his name again. He doesn’t chase after him. There’s no point. When Luke doesn’t want to talk, they don’t talk; the same goes for Calum.

So, instead, Calum moves his finger over the touchpad, making the light of his laptop screen illuminate his face. Chords. That’s all that’s open. Two different websites with the same song, but slightly differing chords. Luke’s learning a song for him. One by The Amity Affliction, just like he asked. _This Could Be Heartbreak_. Calum loves that song.

Then he sees it; the media player is open. He clicks on it. It’s a video. _Play Again?_ He clicks on it.

Calum’s stomach hits the floor the moment he realises what it is.

He appears on screen, unaware, minding his own business. He adjusts his hat, pulling the cap further down his face.

 _“Where we going, Cal?”_ comes a voice from behind the camera. It’s Ashton.

Calum watches himself startle, listens to himself say, “ _Christmas Island_.”

“ _Why we going?_ ”

Calum looks behind the camera, deadpan. “ _Been putting up with your shit for eight years, apparently._ ”

There’s a giggle. “ _Aww, love you, too, Cal!_ ”

Suddenly the view swivels. Ashton enters them frame along with Calum, lands a kiss on the side of his chin, the only place he can reach from the angle he’s leaning at.

As some sort of torture, Calum watches it all; all the kisses, all the red crabs, all the beach views, all the less than flattering angles of Calum that Ashton seems to find hilarious. He watches until the very end. He knows what’s coming. Ashton’s excited face, pale with disbelief. He holds up his hand, shows a ring on finger. “ _Guess who’s getting married when the government stops being wankers!_ ” he cheers, Calum’s face in his neck, mumbling something about how he should’ve stole his camera and recorded it.

Now, Calum’s glad he didn’t.

God, if Luke had seen _that_.

 _Luke_.

Calum slams his laptop shut, scrambles to his feet.

He finds Luke in the kitchen, standing in front of the sink. The water's running, hot, steam pluming upwards. Calum hopes he’s not been running it over his fingers all this time. There’s nothing sinister behind it, he reminds himself. Luke doesn’t hate himself. He’s not like Calum. Calum shakes his head. He doesn’t hate himself. No. He just doesn’t think too highly of himself sometimes.

Luke turns off the tap, grabs the tea towel that hangs from one of the cupboard doors to dry his hands. He doesn’t look at Calum.

“Luke—”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Luke asks, cutting Calum off. He stares out the window. It faces the neighbour’s window. A single mother with twins. Calum’s seen her smoking outside a few times.

“’Course.”

Luke finally turns around. He leans against the counter, hands tucked under his armpits as if they were cold. He’s probably just trying to stop himself from doing anymore damage.

He was doing so well, Calum thinks sadly.

Luke licks his lips, wetting them. “I’ve never had a boyfriend. Before you, I mean. I’d never had a boyfriend until you.” He looks down, embarrassed, just like the night they met. He lifts his head up again. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Cal. This is all—fucking— _I don’t know_.” Luke hides his face with his dirty sleeves. The fingers poking out are red raw.

When Calum goes to him, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t feel jealous, Calum concludes. He feels inadequate. Calum holds him, tight. Luke should never feel like that. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Calum whispers close to Luke’s ear. He’s cheeks heat up. He’s ashamed at the memory. “I was a right prick to Ashton, right at the very end, when we broke up, and I—I didn’t want you to think that about me. I didn’t want to scare you off.”

Luke’s arms wrap around him. He breathes easier. “I’m sorry—I promised I wouldn’t be weird. You don’t have to, y’know, talk about it.”

Calum pets his hair down, kisses his hairline. “Want to go to bed?”

Luke shakes his head. For a moment, Calum’s stomach drops, anticipates Luke telling him that he’s going to sleep on the couch, or go home to his mum. He doesn’t, though. “’M not that tired anymore.” Luke pulls his head away. His eyes are brightening again.

Calum sucks on his bottom lip. “FIFA?” he suggests. “I’ll let you win.”

Luke seems to think about it for a moment. “Promise?” Luke holds out his pinky.

Calum curls his around Luke’s. “Promise.”

*

When Luke goes to bed, Calum goes into the spare room, opens his laptop and deletes the video. Somewhere deep in his chest, his heart hurts.

*

Calum doesn’t expect things to go back to normal—and they don’t. Luke calls his mum more, speaks less, runs more, doesn’t annoy Calum as much. Calum sort of misses having a toe jabbed into his ribs as he’s trying to watch the football, but he doesn’t force the issue.

They should talk about it, he knows that, but he just doesn’t want to. He can’t bring himself to have that conversation. Trivial nonsense is much, much easier. Saying nothing at all is the option he often opts for.

Tonight, though—tonight, they are going to have fun. They’re going to get drunk, listen to good music and have fun.

*

Calum doesn’t know how or why, but he ends up with Luke sitting on his shoulders.

It’s not easy, but he manages it, high off adrenaline and alcohol, the little pendant of Luke’s necklace constantly smacking him in the forehead as he leans forward, squealing about how he’s going to fall. He’s laughing, though—full-on, genuine laughing. Calum can feel it thrum through him, accompanying the bass that blasts through the venue. They’re at the back, too, so it’s not like they’re annoying anyone, despite the few odd looks they get.

When he puts him down, back on solid ground, Calum doesn’t let his arm leave Luke’s waist, and Luke doesn’t let his arm leave Calum’s shoulders. They bounce together, sing together, wave their hands in the air together. They’re in sync, the same being, if only for a while, in that moment.

It’s better than sex.

They do that too, of course, when they get home. It’s awful, messy, unsafe—Luke waits until Calum’s pushing inside of him to unceremoniously announce that he got the clap when he was nineteen. He laughs about it. He won’t stop laughing.

“It’s not funny.” Calum’s laughing too, slapping a hand over Luke’s mouth. He’s still trying to fuck him. “Stop laughing; it’s not funny.”

He’s still laughing at something, body vibrating, as he runs his fingers through his own come, waiting for Calum to finish.

“Do it inside me,” he demands, grazing his fingers along his own sensitive cock.

“I’m not cleaning you up,” Calum says, hips thrusting. His voice is raspy; he’s close.

In fairness, he never claimed to be a generous lover.

“Fine,” Luke concedes. “My face, then. On my face.”

Calum’s not going to say no, is he?

*

He has that dream again.

It’s quieter this time. There’s no screaming, no burning. Everything is slow, in soft focus. The figures are large and blurry, talking muffled nonsense. Everything is still red, though. There’s still blood on Calum’s hands. He kills a man. He kills a man that killed a man.  That never changes.

*

“We’re okay, aren’t we?” Luke asks, stroking Calum’s back.

It’s Sunday, a lazy day. Luke was going to go running, but Calum convinced him otherwise. Now they’re just cuddling beneath the sheets, Calum resting on Luke’s chest, his head where Luke usually tucks a fist.

“Yeah, we’re alright.”

Luke is quiet for a moment. His heartbeat is steady beneath Calum.

“Do you want to hear a song?”

Calum would love to hear a song. He waits in bed as Luke pads to the spare room, returning a moment later with his guitar and a pick. He sits at Calum’s feet at the end of the bed, crosses his legs. He’s wearing a baggy hoodie, only letting a sliver of his boxers show. He taps his fingers awkwardly on the body, clears his throat, tucks his hair behind his ears. He’s lovely, imperfect in a way that only serves to make him more beautiful.

Calum made the right choice.

Luke strums.

Luke sings.

Calum smiles.


	5. lay me down to crawl

Luke gets sick at the start of July.

Calum finds him hunched over the toilet, clinging to the bowl, crying. He doesn’t like being sick. No one likes being sick, Calum reassures him, grabbing a hair bobble from the window ledge before kneeling beside him to tie back his hair. He slips his hand under Luke’s t-shirt, rubs the small of his back, telling him, “That’s it. Get it out. You’ll feel better. I know—I know, babe, it’s no fun, but you’ll feel better.”

He tucks Luke up in bed after rinsing his mouth out and finding the fluffiest pair of socks they own for him to wear. It’s cold. The middle of the night. Calum can still feel the cold bathroom tiles beneath his knees. He doesn’t want Luke to be cold.

Pale, dark circles under his eyes, wet cheeks, Luke mutters nonsense about something going around at work. He’s tired. Calum’s tired, too. He kisses Luke’s damp forehead and says he’s going to get him some water. By the time he comes back, though, Luke is asleep, breathing out heavy through his nose, so he leaves the glass on the nightstand.

Calum crashes on the couch with a blanket. He needs to sleep. He’s not been sleeping at all. He sets an alarm on his phone to wake him up at seven, early enough for him to phone in sick on Luke’s behalf, but wakes up before it gets a chance to go off. He groans, stiff, his feet cold. He checks up on Luke before padding to the kitchen for a smoke.

It’s Luke’s birthday soon. Calum’s phone is full of internet searches for ideas of what to get him. He scrolls through a website full of shit ideas as he smokes, frowning and pondering, wondering why he’s making such a big deal about it. He’s always told Luke not to. Luke never listens, but he tells him not to. Locking his phone and finishing his cigarette, Calum stares out the window, perhaps hoping lightening would strike from the outside world.

It doesn’t.

Luke’s not sick again until after lunch. He doesn’t eat anything, doesn’t drink anything. In the back of his mind, Calum knows he’ll get dehydrated, but what can he do? He can’t force water down Luke’s throat. That’d make everything ten times worse.

He sits with Luke. He’s whimpering and moaning, clawing at the bedsheets. Calum reaches over, touches Luke’s forehead. He’s burning.

It’s freezing in their bedroom.

“Calum,” Luke moans, trying to sit, trying to kick off the bedsheets, trying to toe off his fluffy socks. In a panic, he grabs the glass from the nightstand, tips it over his head, soaking himself, soaking the bed. It brings no relief. “I’m gonna be sick.”

That’s all the warning Calum gets.

Luke is sick down himself, like a baby, helpless, hand hovering just beneath his mouth. He cries, mouth dripping with stomach acid, telling Calum how sorry he is. There’s nothing to be sorry for, Calum thinks, carefully keeping Luke’s head up so he doesn’t choke. He looks around, wondering what to do next, deciding it best not to move for the time being.

It’s not pleasant. It burns Luke’s throat and Calum’s nostrils.  Luke continues to cry. Calum sort of wants to cry, too. He’s so tired.

“It’s okay, babe,” Calum says, and begins to shift backwards out of bed. He walks around to Luke’s side. “Can you take your clothes off? Can you do that for me?”

Nodding, Luke wipes his running nose with the back of his arm. He gets undressed slowly, carefully, and leaves his dirty clothes in a pile on the bed. As he stands up, hot body shivering in the cold room, Calum grabs his discarded t-shirt, using it to wipe Luke’s hands clean as best as he can. Luke whines, embarrassed, but Calum ignores him. This is what people do. In sickness and in health. He takes a moment to understand that Luke isn’t used to this, isn’t used to someone caring so much, but that’s Luke’s problem, not his.

“Gonna get you cleaned up now, okay?” Calum says, touching the underside of Luke’s chin, making him look up.

He holds Luke against his hip as they walk, slowly, to the bathroom. They don’t have a bath, so a shower it is. Calum strips off his clothes as Luke waits by the toilet, rubbing his ruddy cheeks with the back of his hand, still mumbling to himself about something or other, Calum can’t quite make out.

As soon as Luke gets in the shower, he sits, back against the wall, knees to his chest. “Can you keep the water cool?” he asks as Calum joins him, reaching up to grab the shower head.

“Sure,” Calum says, turning the shower on and crouching beside Luke, feet squeaking against the floor. He holds the spray against his wrist for a while, trying not to get Luke wet with the freezing cold water. Once there’s a little heat coming through, he starts moving the head over Luke, cleaning and freshening him up. “Is that alright?”

Luke nods, tipping his head back against the wall.

Calum thinks about just giving Luke a quick hose down, but decides against it. He grabs some soap from the little ledge and carefully starts rubbing it into Luke’s wet skin. It’s loving, caring, intimate, new. Luke smiles up at Calum gratefully.

When he’s done, Calum sends Luke off to the living-room wrapped up in a towel. He gets dressed again in the bathroom and gets to work changing the sheets, shoving the dirty ones straight in the washing machine with Luke’s clothes. He’s still fixing the new sheets when Luke trudges in, towel around his shoulders like a shawl, exposing his entire lower half. Without a word, he drops the towel and slides open a drawer, pulls out a pair of pyjama bottoms and tugs them up his long legs.

“Come on, get in,” Calum says, holding one edge of the covers open.

Luke does as he’s told. Calum pulls the covers up to his chin. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, fist clenched by his mouth.

Calum sits on the edge of the bed, strokes his damp hair. “Nothing you can help, babe.” 

Planting a kiss on his hairline, Calum leaves Luke to sleep.

Collapsing onto the couch, Calum sleeps, exhausted.

*

It’s mild outside when Calum goes shopping with Mali. The sun is out, but the air is cold. Calum tugs at the strings of his hoodie as Mali stops at a shop window, pressing her finger to the glass.

“I don’t think he’s into women’s clothes,” Calum says, looking at the blouses in the window.

Mali tips her head back, looks at Calum. “You don’t _think_.”

Calum shrugs, smiling. “Never asked.”

They start walking again. Calum sticks his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie, pulls out his phone. Luke hasn’t called or texted him. He’s back at work for the first time since he got sick, so no phone call is probably a good thing.

“Why don’t you just take him out for dinner or something?” Mali suggests, adjusting the bag strap on her shoulder.

Calum’s thought about it, but it doesn’t seem very _them_. It doesn’t seem very _Luke_. Luke likes a few beers at the weekend, a plate full of greasy Chinese food on his lap, all with minimal effort. Calum is the same. He’s exhausted.

“Nah,” he says, “I’ll just get him something to wear.” He slips his phone back into his pocket. “We’re going over to his mum’s on Saturday for a party thing; I’ll get him something nice to wear.”

Mali nods. She pauses, taking a quick scan around the high street. “What does he like?”

Calum grinds his teeth into his bottom lip. Luke’s clothes range from very cheap and ugly, to very expensive and ugly, but he’s not sure if that information helps at all. “He likes shirts,” he settles on, eventually, imagining Luke standing in front of him, shirt unbuttoned scandalously low.

“Cool. Shirts. That’s a start,” Mali says, tapping a finger against her chin, thinking. “I think I know just the place.”

*

Their house is small. When Luke is playing his guitar with the door open, Calum can hear it faintly from anywhere in the house. Today he’s playing something slow today; Calum recognises the tune, but he’s not sure where from. He pauses in his quest to hide Luke’s birthday present, awkwardly holding himself up with a hand flat on the back of the cupboard, and strains to listen.

In the end, he gives up, walking the short distance to the spare room. Luke’s exactly where Calum expects him to be; sinking into a bean bag, legs crossed beneath him, guitar on his lap. He looks up as Calum makes his way inside, plops himself down on the other bean bag in the room. They’re still not entirely sure what to do with the space.

“Give me a clue?” Calum asks.

“Think _Morning Glory_.”

Calum sucks on his top teeth. “Nope.”

“Oasis.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Calum rolls his eyes. “Play it again. Or just the chorus.”

Luke does. Calum watches his hands, dry and red from the cold, but not bleeding. Luke’s been good again. It makes Calum smile—just like this little game they play. Luke learns a song, and Calum has to guess which one it is. Calum’s not sure, but he thinks Luke might be winning.

“Give up?” Luke asks, grinning. He holds the neck of the guitar tight, leaning forward. He looks smug, the bastard.

“Fine.”

“ _Acquiesce_.”

“Fuck! Should’ve known that.”

Luke’s laughter is light and airy. He places his guitar aside, crawls the short distance to Calum and sits in his lap, arms slackly draped over his shoulders.

Calum holds Luke by the small of his back, hands slipped under his t-shirt. It hangs loosely from him, a size too big, just the way Luke likes them. “How you feeling?”

“Better. Tired. I picked up lasagne for dinner.”

Calum insists on making dinner. Lasagne, garlic bread and salad, with lots of cherry tomatoes, upon Luke’s insistence. He ends up just picking them out of the bowl anyway, hanging around the kitchen like a fly, chatting idly about his day between popping tomatoes into his mouth. Calum warns him off with a knife when he gets too close to the sliced cucumber.

Luke eats like he’s been starved. “Missed lunch,” he tells Calum, dragging a slice of garlic bread through the leftover sauce.

Calum doesn’t scold him. He’s a big boy. He can skip and catch up on meals whenever he wants.

Like most evenings, they spend them separate. After dinner, Luke cleans the plates and retreats into the spare room, closing the door behind him. Sometimes he sings. Sometimes he just plays the guitar. Sometimes it’s so quiet that Calum thinks Luke might be doing nothing at all. Sitting on the couch, feet up on the table, Calum turns the TV volume up high, finds a film with lots of cars and guns and explosions. He doesn’t hear anything from the spare room.

He doesn’t see Luke until he’s stripping off, getting ready for bed. He’d heard Luke go into the kitchen, but he’s surprised when he comes into their bedroom, two steaming mugs in hand.

“What’s that?” Calum asks. He pushes himself up to a sitting position, head back against the headboard, straining to see.

“Chamomile tea,” Luke says. Sometime between dinner and now, Luke has scraped his hair back into a messy bun. Half of it is falling out. “Helps you sleep.” Carefully, Luke climbs in beside Calum, handing over one of the hot mugs. It smells like dirt and honey. Luke’s little nose twitches like a bunny rabbit, but he takes a sip anyway.

He doesn’t say anything else. Calum doesn’t say anything either, just sips the tea slowly, face twisting at the taste. He tries to ignore the pair of blue eyes staring at him until he’s finished.

Luke leaves with the mugs again, but just when Calum thinks he’s not coming back, he slips in beside him, body cold. He settles down, his side pressing to the length of Calum's back. Calum moves then, Luke shifting backwards to make room for him. Beneath the sheets, their toes touch, legs sliding together. Calum would kiss Luke if his breath didn’t smell of garlic.

"Go to sleep," Luke says.

Calum tries.

*

“Do you want to go for a run?” Luke asks, hand curled around Calum’s shoulder. He’s crouching by the nightstand, fresh-faced and smelling of pomegranate body wash.

Calum shakes his head, turns his head into the pillow. “Too tired.” Luke’s grip on his shoulder loosens and falls away. Calum keeps his face in his pillow. He doesn’t think he could stomach the look of disappointment on Luke face.

*

“Good morning, birthday boy,” Calum whispers as Luke stirs, slowly extracting his fingers from his mouth, leaving a thin line of spit over his bottom lip and chin that Calum wipes away with the pad of his thumb.

Luke greets Calum with some unintelligible grumbling before sitting up, his hair disturbed by sleep, lips pouted in search of a kiss. Calum takes pity, plants a kiss on his lips despite Luke’s morning breath. It’s his birthday; Calum will make concessions, not that he usually minds. “Can I have you for the whole day?” Luke mutters, wrapping his arms around Calum’s neck.

As much as Calum would love that, he’s got work to get to. He’s already cutting it fine. “From the minute I get back,” Calum promises. “Go back to sleep. I just wanted to see you before I left.” Calum kisses him again, shoving slightly on his chest, forcing him down. Luke goes easily. “Text me during my break what you want brought home for dinner.”

“Okeydokey,” he mumbles sleepily as Calum strokes his blond curls. 

Calum eases through the day, genuinely happy without that deceitful hollowness lurking under the surface of his consciousness.

Just after noon, he gets a message from Luke when he’s outside having a cigarette, a simple message of _Chinese, my usual ;)_ accompanied by a picture of Luke’s arching back and the curve of his underwear-clad arse. Calum accidently snorts aloud. One of his colleagues eyes him curiously from across the smoking area, but Calum pays him no mind and saves the picture in the ambiguously titled ‘travel inspo’ album along with all the other nudes Luke has sent him in the last year. They have been few and far between lately, no need for them really, but today is Luke’s special day—and he’s really feeling himself, apparently.

He’s not doing much when Calum gets home. He’s in the living-room instead of the spare room which is nice, lounging around on the sofa, hand under his t-shirt, scratching at his happy trail. “Hey,” he says, bouncing up. He squeezes the life out of Calum.

It’s a good evening. They eat, chat, kiss lazily on the sofa. “Do you want your present now?” Calum asks, trapped beneath Luke, his hands sliding over his back.

Luke presses his hips down. He’s already half-hard in his boxer-briefs. “Yeah,” he says. “I want it.”

“Not that.”

Luke whines, burying his face in Calum’s neck. “That’s two years in a row now. Don’t think I’ve forgotten, Calum Hood,” he complains as Calum hauls him off by his waist. He smacks his hand into Calum’s when the other boy offers him a hand up and tugs him to their bedroom.

On the bed, Luke sits up on his knees as Calum fetches his present. He adjusts himself in his underwear as he waits, eyes on Calum’s thighs. He wills himself to go soft.

“I can take it back if you don’t like it,” Calum says before he’s even handed it over.

He got the shirt folded neatly, wrapped in blue tissue paper and placed in a flat white box tied with a blue ribbon. It looks fancier than it is. Perched on the edge of the bed, he hopes Luke won’t be disappointed.

Luke is uncharacteristically delicate in his unwrapping. He pulls the ribbon free and waves it, smiling, making Calum laugh, before setting it down to take the lid off the box. Instead of ripping the tissue paper to shreds like Calum is expecting, Luke unfolds it neatly, rough fingers pinching the end of the tissue. Carefully, he picks up the shirt by the shoulders, lets it fall open in front of him.

It’s a floral shirt—navy with lots of white and pink flowers. Calum had walked straight by it in the shop, but Mali pulled him back, suggesting that it might look good on Luke. On the basis that he found it ugly, he knew there was a chance Luke might love it. Luke’s lack of response leaves him second guessing himself. “No?” Calum asks quietly. “I can take it back, like I said. I’ll take you out tomorrow morning and you can—”

Luke lowers the shirt, revealing his face. He’s beaming. Practically beaming. “I love it.”

"Really?"

Luke nods, holding the shirt to his chest now. It suits him. Mali was right. A pretty shirt for a pretty boy. "Thank you, Cal.” Then Luke is kissing Calum, shirt crushed between them, stealing the air right out of his lungs.

*

Calum has that dream again. The same one. He’s not terrified when he wakes up.

Calum rolls over. The bed is empty. Luke is in the spare room, he guesses. Usually, that’s okay, but Calum wants him. Calum wants Luke’s arms around him. He’s not terrified; he’s _sad_.

The door to the spare room is open. The light isn’t on, but there’s a glow from within. Calum pauses by the door, trying to hear something, anything that might indicate what Luke is doing. There’s some tapping of keys, some shuffling. Calum nudges the door open a little more, thankful that it doesn’t make a sound, and peers inside.

Luke’s lying on his back, facing away from the door, his head propped up by the bottom of the bean bag. Beside him, on Calum’s laptop, the only source of light in the room, a porn film is playing with the volume down low. Luke’s got a hand between his legs, soft cock resting on his tummy, fucking himself with however many fingers. By the sounds of him, he seems closer to crying than coming.

Calum just stands there. He’s not hurt. He doesn’t care about Luke watching porn to get himself off. He’s a human being.

Luke’s the one that’s hurting, seemingly. He sounds in pain. “Shit, shit, shit,” he’s mumbling over the wet sound of fingers sliding in and out of a loose hole. “S— _uh,_ Calum. Calum, please.”

Calum steps away from the door, light on his feet. He can’t watch anymore. He goes back to bed, settling for taking Luke’s pillow into his arms and holding it tightly. He doubts Luke will be back to need it anytime soon.

*

Luke is tired in the morning. Calum kisses his cheek as he joins him at the kitchen table. “Looking forward to your party?”

Luke looks ill again. His skin is grey, his eyes red. He drowns his Cheerios with a spoon. “I guess so.”

Calum forces a smile. “So am I. It’ll be nice to meet more of your family.”

It’ll be nice, but he’s nervous about it, too. He bites his nails as he waits in the car, watching Luke lock the front door. He looks down at his bare nails, trying to remember the last time he let Luke paint them. Regardless, Luke doesn’t tell him off when he climbs into the passenger’s side. He looks a little better, showered and dressed up nice, smelling strongly of the aftershave someone from work gave him for his birthday. Calum tells him he looks beautiful.

Luke smiles. It’s small, genuine. Calum’s heart settles a little. “Thanks.”

The drive to Luke’s parents’ house doesn’t take too long. Calum wishes it were longer. Fortunately, by now Luke’s spirits have raised a tenfold. He bounces around in his seat, singing along to _Ha Ha You’re Dead_ at the top of his lungs, playing air guitar for good measure.

“Hope you’re not planning on singing that at my funeral,” Calum says, checking his rear-view mirror as he parks the car.

Luke unbuckles his seatbelt, staring at him.

“What?” Calum asks, shutting off the engine.

Luke shakes his head. Nothing.

*

It’s less of a party, more of a gathering. Still, Calum smiles as Luke revels in being the centre of attention. He’s comfortable in this setting, open and happy, talking with his hands. Calum’s driving, so he doesn’t drink, spending most of him time waiting for people to talk to him and watching Luke out of the corner of his eye.

Luke comes back to him intermittently, asking if he’s okay, if he wants something to drink, eat, someone to go out back and smoke with. “I’m fine, babe, really,” he insists, clapping a hand on Luke’s waist, letting his thumb rub against the soft fabric of his shirt. Once, he overhears one of Luke’s aunts complementing it, and Luke saying _thank you, my boyfriend got it for me_ and a weird pride erupts in Calum’s chest. He really does look so pretty.

Luke rests a hand in Calum’s hair. It’s getting longer, curlier. Luke thinks it’s cute. “If you’re sure.”

Calum opens his mouth to reassure him, but he’s cut off.

“Boys!” It’s Luke’s mum. “I need a picture of you two.”

Luke and Calum look between each other. “Okay,” Luke says, putting his drink down and planting himself on Calum’s lap. He hooks an arm around Calum’s neck, presses the sides of their faces together.

Judging by the look on Luke’s mum’s face, it’s not what she had in mind.  With the slightest disapproving shake of her head, she takes the picture anyway.

Luke grabs his drink when she leaves, not moving from his seat on Calum’s lap. “She likes you.”

“Secretly.”

Luke bumps his forehead against Calum’s. “Well, she doesn’t hate you like you think she does.”

“Reassuring.”

“ _Ca-a-a-a-lum_ ,” Luke groans, butting their foreheads together gently, again and again and again.

Calum squeezes Luke’s side. “If you say so.”

Luke’s cake comes out soon after that. "Happy Birthday to you," Calum sings along with everyone else, keeping close to Luke, fingers caressing his lower back. "Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday, dear Luke—Happy Birthday to you." Luke blows out the candles, tucking his hair behind his ears and his necklace in his shirt before he does.

“Right, now you have to stick your face in it!” Luke’s brother, Jack, calls from across the room.

“Erh, not before I get a slice,” Luke’s dad says, making Calum laugh. “Do what you wish with it after that.”

The cake is great, and the icing tastes even better off the tip of Luke’s finger and the corner of his mouth. Luke smiles around the fingers he’s sucking clean, his eyes bright, a genuine happiness radiating out of his every pore. Calum wishes it was always like this. He wishes he could be this happy all the time. He wonders if that’s what Luke wished for, to be happy. He hopes Luke will always be happy—if not with him, if not with anyone, then with himself.

“Hey, buddy!”

Suddenly, something inside Luke goes cold. Calum can see it in his eyes. Luke is frozen. Immobile. Something eats him alive, starting at his fingers. The frost has killed him.

Calum watches Luke turn, finding himself in the open arms of another man. Luke is still in his embrace before tentatively wrapping his arms around him.

“Missed you, man. Where’ve you been hiding?” the stranger is saying, loud and bold, keeping an arm hooked around Luke’s neck as he spins him back around to face Calum.

“Nowhere,” Luke says, no longer static, but sagging. Calum watches Luke’s fingers curl around the other boy’s waist. They’re familiar with each other; friends, _buddies_. Luke’s eyes are warming again.

Calum feels oddly…left out.

“I’m Calum,” he says, extending a hand. It’s very formal. Luke doesn’t say anything.

“Michael,” he says cheerily, taking Calum’s extended hand. “Luke’s boyfriend, right?”

“Yep.”

“Way to go, Lukey,” Michael cheers, shaking Luke, ruffling his hair. Luke tries, feebly, to wriggle free, but gives up. “Hope he’s not causing you too much trouble,” he says to Calum.

“’M not causing him any trouble,” Luke defends himself. Calum smiles in agreement.

“Well, that’s good to hear. Right, sorry to love you and leave you, but I need to go, so you—” Michael tugs a card out of the inside of his jacket and presses it to Luke’s chest as he presses a kiss on his temple, “—have a wonderful birthday.” He lets go of Luke, and for a moment Calum thinks he might need to catch him. “Calum, mate, it was nice to meet you. We need to hang out sometime,” Michael says, giving the back of Luke’s neck one more squeeze. His voice drops, quiet. “Call me. I miss you.”

“Will do,” Luke says. He’s smiling. It’s small, but he’s smiling.

It disappears with Michael.

“I need a smoke,” Luke says.

They go out back, standing away from the porch, out of sight of everyone. Calum only lights one, and they pass it between themselves, letting the ash fall gently between them. Luke doesn’t say a word, just takes a drag, passes it back to Calum when he’s done and chews on the skin around his thumb nail as he waits. The white envelope Michael gave him is wedged safely under his arm.

Calum takes it upon himself to speak first. “Michael seems nice.”

“He is.”

“You’ve never mentioned him before. You seem—close.”

“We are,” Luke says, taking the cigarette from Calum. He throws the butt to the ground and crushes it into the grass. Calum hopes Luke’s mum won’t get mad at him for it. He doesn’t want to creep further onto her bad side. It seems like he’s in this for the long haul. “We were,” he amends.

Calum is curious. “What happened?”

“Does it matter?” Luke asks, running his hands through his hair. It’s not like him. Maybe he’s been spending too much time with Calum. Calum very much doubts it.

Calum rocks back and forth on his heels. “I suppose not.” Luke’s shoulders hunch. He continues digging the toe of his boot into the grass. “Come here,” Calum says, hugging him, chin hooked over his shoulder, one hand patting his bum. He kisses his ear with chapped lips. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. You’re right. Want another smoke?” Calum asks, pulling back.

They share the next one as well.

Luke is quiet again, until he isn’t. “Why didn’t you help me?”

“Help you?” Calum exhales skywards. The wind is starting to pick up, blowing in his face. “When?”

Luke licks his lips, wetting them. They are beginning to crack. It’s that time of year. “Last night. I asked you and you—you didn’t help me.”

“I—”

“Luke!” Luke’s mum. Thank the Lord. “Luke, your grandma’s leaving; come say goodbye!”

Luke holds Calum’s gaze for a moment before turning to leave.

*

The drive back home is torture. Calum thinks about thumping his head against the steering wheel more than once, the silence eating away at him. At every red light, be peers over at Luke, sitting with his face to the window, leftover birthday cake neatly wrapped in tinfoil in his lap.

Surprisingly, Luke does not retreat to the spare room when they get home. Instead, he arranges his birthday cards on the living-room window sill with damp, chewed fingers. Calum doesn’t fail to notice that the _boyfriend_ and _son_ ones get a special place in the centre.

“Want to watch a movie and eat cake?” Luke asks him, knees clicking as he stands from where he’s been sitting.

Calum is tired. He doesn’t know why. He wants to sleep. Sometimes that doesn’t even help.

Still, he says, “Sure, babe.”

They end up watching some cheesy romcom—the storyline is shit, but the male lead is hot, so they put up with it for a while. Most of their focus is on the cake, anyway, sat between them, icing sticking to the tinfoil. They take turns digging their forks into the cake, trying their best not to get crumbs everywhere. Calum is only slightly more successful than Luke, who spends most of his time picking bits of cake that have fallen easily beneath his open shirt. They’re practically wearing most of it by the time their stomachs start to hurt.

Full, Luke curls into Calum’s side, his head on his shoulder.

Typically, the couple on screen live out a happy ending.

It reminds Calum. “What did you wish for?”

“Can’t tell,” Luke mutters. Calum can’t say he hadn’t been expecting it. “Won’t come true.” His voice is quiet, sleepy.

Calum thinks he might be about to doze off.

He does. They both do.

*

In his dream, Calum stumbles. The skin of his palms peel away as he crawls across bloody concrete, away from the scene of his crime, disorientated and ill, white noise ringing in his ear. He crawls. He crawls and he crawls and he crawls until the blood is no longer warm. It’s cold. Slowly, surely, seeping into the concrete, glazing over.

He crawls to a body, face-down and soaked in blood.

Who did he kill for? Whose vengeance is he seeking? With shaky hands, he turns the body over.

A pair of blue eyes stare back at him. They blink.

“Cal?” It’s Luke. “Come to bed. Come on.”

Calum sits, slowly, carefully, Luke’s fingers hooked into his shoulders, guiding him upright. He reaches out, touches Luke’s face. There’s icing in his beard, sleep crusting his eyes. There’s no blood but for what wells in his mouth, out of sight, inner walls of his cheeks torn apart. If Calum were to kiss him, he would taste pennies.

Calum’s been screaming. His throat hurts. Luke looks terrified.

“Come on,” Luke repeats, helping Calum up and back to bed. When they are settled, Luke curls into Calum again, strokes his hair. “Do you want to talk about?” Luke asks.

Calum shakes his head. He doesn’t. Neither of them ever do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i call this genre domestic emo trash.


	6. these brakes don't work no more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very, very short update since it's been so long. the next chapter is when things...come to a head, so to speak.

Winter melts away. The change in temperature strikes Calum down with a cold.

Really, he should be in bed, but he isn’t. Sniffing, Calum passes the sleeve of his hoodie under his running nose and shifts on the kitchen chair, watching as Luke fiddles to turn the gas hob on. He’s making Calum soup. Chicken noddle, straight out the tin. Calum can’t say he’s not looking forward to it, stomach growling.

Luke’s not long in from work, body slouching forward in one of his too-big t-shirts. There’s a hole along the bottom that Calum doesn’t remember seeing before, but it’s too low down to expose any of Luke’s peachy flesh, so shows off the top of his shorts instead. Calum resists the urge to poke his finger through it, make it bigger, tear the entire t-shirt in two. In his head, the feeling would be satisfying.

It’s gone when Luke turns around. He leans back, rubs his hands over his face and crosses his legs at the shin. When Calum glances down, he notices his toes are bare, that there’s a nasty red blister on the side of his pinky toe. Luke’s been running a lot more recently. Calum’s own toes curl in his socks.

“Should put a plaster on that,” he says.

Luke wiggles his toes. “I want to pop it _so_ bad.”

Honestly, Calum’s surprised he hasn’t already. Luke loves picking holes in himself. “Best if you don’t.”

“I know, but.” Luke shrugs, turning to give the soup a gentle stir. “I can give you this in bed, you know. Pretty sure there’s a tray somewhere.” Luke potters around, opening and closing kitchen cupboard doors until he finds the tray in question. “Go. I’ll bring it through.”

Calum doesn’t get much of a say in the matter. He’s tucked up in bed soon after, scrolling through Facebook out of boredom on his phone. He likes a few statuses, replies to an old message from one of his cousins in Scotland and changes his relationship status from _engaged_ to _in a relationship_. He’s not been on Facebook for a while, it seems.

Luke brings him in his chicken noodle soup and sets it on his lap, promising to join him once he’s fixed himself a sandwich. He returns, as promised, and climbs into bed with Calum, staying above the sheets.

“Is that all your having?” Calum asks, looking at Luke measly salad sandwich. He swallows a spoonful of soup.

Luke pulls the crusts off the bread, eats them on their own. He shrugs. “I’ll have something else later if I’m hungry.”

Luke’s lost some weight. It’s not concerning, but it’s noticeable. He’s thinner, leaner, his skin clearer. The lemon tea that accompanies his sandwich has become a staple of his diet. Most of his bad habits have died away, too, apart from the occasional cigarette he steals from Calum. Calum wonders if he’d still want chocolate after sex, if he grabs something sweet from the fridge after he’s made himself come in the spare room.

He does that a lot and he’s not subtle. Sometimes he leaves the door open, practically begging for Calum to catch him, to help him, but Calum never does. He doesn’t want to have sex—not with Luke, not with anyone. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know why.

Slurping up more soup, Calum looks over at his boyfriend. His beautiful boyfriend. He doesn’t know why.

*

For a while, things get better.

Calum’s not entirely sure, but he thinks getting ill was the catalyst. Luke spends less time inside of the spare room, and more time with him. Calum isn’t used to being alone. Luke is. They’re still trying to work out an equilibrium that works for the both of them, Calum supposes, shifting slightly in Luke’s lazy hold. Something funny is on TV; Calum’s not watching, but Luke’s laughter passes through his chest and straight into Calum. It’s nice. It’s better.

Luke plays with Calum’s hair when the news comes on. It’s all murder and politics and misery anyway. Calum looks up at Luke instead.

“Mum asked if she and dad could come over at the weekend,” Luke says. Calum can feel his fingers against his scalp. “Would that be alright with you?”

Calum can’t say no. Liz will think there’s something wrong if he says no. “Yeah, sure thing, babe,” he says. “Want me to invite my parents, too?”

Luke glows with excitement. “Yeah! That’d be nice. Like a proper family dinner.”

Calum doesn’t exactly share in Luke’s enthusiasm, but he helps get the house in order beforehand and watches Luke cook from the kitchen table, his chin cradled in his hands. He’s already asked Luke if he wants any help, but Luke is in some weird zone, scuttling about like a man possessed. The spectator role will have to do for now.

There’s a God, so Calum’s parents arrive first. They love Luke—his mum makes no secret of it, gushing over everything he says as his dad hangs back and gives him a comforting little nod and smile. Calum offers his dad a beer as Luke shows his mum something in the kitchen but he shakes his head. “Drew the short straw,” he says with a laugh. “I’m driving.”

A weird sense of foreboding disturbs Calum’s bliss when the door rings again. He knows he shouldn’t hate his boyfriends’ parents—and he doesn’t; he’s just a little scared of his mum is all. He still feels shitty as Luke leaps up from his spot on the sofa, announcing proudly that he can’t wait for their parents to meet.

It’s not awful.

At least, it’s not as awful as Calum is expecting.

Their parents get on really well. Calum gets caught up in a discussion about football with his own dad and Luke’s to care too much about the way Luke’s mum occasionally looks at him. He gets it. He took her baby away from her. Calum would be a little edgy over that, too, but it’s been so long, and Luke is a big boy. If Luke get hurt it’s—well, it’s not all on him, but you have to stand by what you choose, and Luke chose Calum. Calum chose Luke.

“We should do this more often,” Luke says as they wash the dishes after dinner. Calum’s washing and Luke’s drying.

Calum hums. He wouldn’t go that far. He deposits some cutlery onto the rack, soap and water dripping from his fingers. He hasn’t bothered with gloves. He never does. “I like having you all to myself, though,” he says, if only just to cause that shrill little laugh from Luke.

And then Luke smashes a plate.

It’s not a big deal, but Luke has a habit of making things a big deal when they don’t need to be. At most, the smash mildly startles Calum, but it’s Luke’s automatic reaction to drop down and pick it up that has him pulling his hands from the soapy water and making a grab for Luke’s hands before he can touch the broken shards of plate. He’s too late by the time he has a slippery hand wrapped around Luke’s wrist, blood oozing from the pads of Luke’s fingers in an unfamiliar way.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Calum says, hand still tight around Luke’s wrist. “What the fuck—”

“Luke!”

The both of them freeze at the sound of Liz’ voice, meeting each other’s eyes. Luke looks almost confused, a weird frown disturbing the joy Calum remembers seeing on his features the entire night, and Calum just stares back until his eyes flit down to where he’s holding onto Luke. Only then does he drop his hand.

He barely hears Liz speak as he backs away from Luke, holding a hand up in innocence.

“I dropped a plate,” Luke says. His voice is watery and Calum wants to drown.

Liz moves into the widening space between them, filling a void. She moves Luke’s hand as though he were a child, and something about this frustrates Calum, sending his eyes squinting shut. He wants to tell her to stop as Luke’s face twists at the sting pulsing up his fingers.

He doesn’t.

He can’t.

“I’ll get you some bandages,” he says.

*

Luke picks at the gauze of his bandage.

“Stop that,” Calum scolds.

Luke huffs where he sits at the end of their bed, shoulders broad and curved forwards. There’s a part of Calum that wants to kick himself free of his bedsheets and drape himself over the back of Luke, hook his chin over his shoulder and press kisses down the side of his face. There’s another part of Calum that just wants Luke to stop being such a child and come to bed.

No wonder your mother treats you the way she does, Calum thinks with a punch more venom than he thought himself capable of.

It takes another huff out of Luke for him to come crawling up to Calum, wriggling himself beneath the sheets. There’s a catch on the nail of the finger he uses to trace the outlines of Calum’s tattoos, but he doesn’t say a thing. He pets the back of Luke’s head, fingers getting lost in the messy curls.

“Would you get anymore?” Luke asks idly. His chin rests on Calum’s chest, his body blanketing his completely.

“Maybe,” Calum answers. He lifts his arm and twists it around, looking at the space between the ink. “What about you?”

Luke pulls his famous face-scrunch. He shakes his head, says, “Could never pick what I wanted.”

“What do you want?” Calum asks then. “Like, in general.”

“With you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“A decent house. Two dogs. Maybe a trip to Oktoberfest every year.”

“Oktoberfest?”

“Yeah.” Luke smiles. “It looks dope.”

Calum nods. “It does look dope. Is that it? No, like, white picket fence, marriage, kids?”

Luke lowers his face, hiding it in the dip of Calum’s collarbone. Calum can feel his hear pulse a little faster. “Is that what you want?” he asks quietly.

“No,” Calum says. It comes out as a relief and he tilts his head back, breathing out deep as his fingers continue to stroke through Luke’s hair. “I thought I did, but when the time came I—”

“Ran away?” Luke supplies.

“Something like that.”   

Calum feels Luke’s fingers slowly curl around his face, the rough edge of his bandage irritating his cheek. He’s pushed himself up and hovering over him now, the faint smell of lemon tea ghosting over his features. For a moment, Calum thinks Luke’s going to tell him that he can’t ever run away from him.

And maybe he can’t.

“I love you,” Luke says. It’s the first time and it makes everything seize up in Calum, then melt away.

Cupping his face, Luke kisses him. It’s uncharacteristically gentle, tame. It almost feels a little—generic, like Luke’s been watching too many films, searching for the perfect way to say it.

It’s so endearingly _Luke_.

“I love you, too,” Calum says. He can’t stop the words slipping out, quiet and sincere. Through a haze of sluggish emotions, it’s one of the few things Calum is very sure of.

*

Calum runs a comb through Luke’s hair. He’s sitting on the couch with Luke on the floor, his knees spread wide to accommodate him. With every tug, he apologises under his breath, but Luke doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. In fact, content little hums escape him every so often, head tilted back and eyes shut, mind floating off somewhere nice if the smile on his face is anything to go by. Calum sort of wants to kiss him like this, so he does, leaning forward and almost toppling over, catching the corner of Luke’s cheek as he laughs.

“I love you,” Luke says, awkwardly hooking an arm back around Calum. “ _IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou_ ,” he says, just because he can, because it’s not so scary anymore.

It’s never scary when someone loves you back.

*

“You’ve been sleeping more,” Luke says to Calum one Sunday morning. He’s soaked through with sweat, his commitment to his resolution beginning to falter but not quite ceasing. “You look—better. You never looked bad,” he adds quickly, “but you look better.”

“I feel better,” Calum admits.

“No bad dreams?” Luke asks, peeling off his t-shirt. He’s stood near the laundry basket and Calum’s just watching him, following him around the house as he loses clothes. Like this, Calum kind of wants to fuck him, but he kind of can’t be bothered with it still.

“No.”

Luke comes back to him. Sometimes, with the amount of time Luke spends curled up on top of him, beside him, he forgets Luke is bigger than he is. Luke can crowd him against the wall, trapping him there. It’s not intimidating, though. It’s warm, warmer than the sweat-damp skin that presses Calum’s t-shirt to his own skin.

“Shower with me?” Luke asks, nudging his nose into Calum’s jaw.

Calum does shower with him, bumping up against him in the very little space they have to move. Luke giggles, having far too much fun, and whines when he gets soap in his eyes. Calum doesn’t have much sympathy through his own laughter, gliding his hands, slippery and soft, down the sides of Luke’s torso. He’s much more solid than he used to be, flesh firmer when Calum squeezes down.

“Calum, guess what?”

Calum looks up from where he’s towelling himself dry. Luke is completely naked, still dripping wet on their bedroom floor with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“What?”

“I love you.”

*

Then Calum injures himself at work.

It’s stupid, really, a dumb mistake when he’s lifting a crate. The diagnosis is a pulled back muscle and the treatment painkillers and rest. Calum lies in bed most of the first day, acutely aware of the sinking feeling lurking around in the quiet, the house void of any true distractions until Luke comes home with the skin peeling around the nail of his index finger.

To his credit, Luke doesn’t leave his side, even when Calum wants him to.

“It says light massages help increase blood flow,” Luke says, curled up around his laptop. Calum’s on his side, pillow between his legs, just watching him. “I could, you know…”

Calum doesn’t really want his hands anywhere near him.

“I’m a bit sore,” Calum says. It’s not actually that bad, the painkillers numbing where the stabbing sensation had once been. Getting home had been a bitch that day. He hadn’t thought to call Luke. “Maybe tomorrow,” he lies.

“Tomorrow,” Luke repeats, then shifts his laptop away to lean over and kiss Calum. “You know I’ve got magic hands.”

Luke’s hands don’t look that magic when they’re tucked up near his face, fingers disappearing in and out of the cavern of his mouth, damp and bloody. Calum wants to tell him to stop, but there’s no point; he’ll only get embarrassed and do it ten times worse out of sight of Calum. He hopes they have plasters kicking around somewhere, just in case.

When tomorrow comes Calum pushes Luke away with a gentle hand. “I’m a bit tired,” he says, which, again, isn’t exactly a lie, but maybe not the whole truth. Luke accepts it, though, but this time he slinks off before Calum can call him back, and he spends the rest of the evening trying to figure out what songs Luke is playing from the spare room. He can’t name any of them.

He falls asleep before Luke comes back to bed.

*

The dreams return with a vengeance.

**Author's Note:**

> [fic edit](https://vintageashton.tumblr.com/post/157882626881/bloom-by-canarybird-calumluke-explicit-au) if you so wish to share :)


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